































































































































He reeled and toppled backwards down the cliff 

[Page 285] 


BRANDED 


BY 

ROBERT AMES BENNET 

Author of The Two-Gun Man , 

Tyrrel of the Cow Country 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO 

1924 





Copyright 

A. C. McClurg & Co. 
1924 


Published November, 1924 


Copyrighted, in Great Britain 



©Cl A807657 


Printed in the United States of 




NOV -4 74 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

Prelude The Wolf Cub. 1 

I One Faithful Maverick. 15 

II For Mary’s Sake. 24 

III Wolf Play . 36 

IV Milk and Gall. 46 

V In Bad. 59 

VI Poison . 73 

VII An Over-Reach . 82 

VIII Fired . 91 

IX The Rustlers . 100 

X Rebellion . 108 

XI Some Slick Snake. 116 

XII The Necktie Party. 126 

XIII Kiowa Shifts . 136 

XIV The Coming of Justice. 145 

XV Brand Foreman.;. 153 

XVI A Journey Postponed. 163 

XVII Out-Played . 171 

XVIII Youth Against Age. 181 

XIX The Lash. 187 

XX Sheep . 198 

XXI Accounts Settled. 208 

XXII Blizzard Blessings . 218 

XXIII The Fawning Wolf. 227 

XXIV Liers-in-Wait . 239 

XXV Night Prowlers . 248 

XXVI Splay Foot’s Leavings. 259 

XXVII For Favors Received. 268 

XXVIII Wolf Work. 276 

XXIX End of the Trail. 288 

XXX The She-Wolf’s Lair. 301 

































BRANDED 



BRANDED 

PRELUDE 

THE WOLF CUB 

T HE freak May snow-squall howled down aslant 
the night-blackened Yamparo hills in a minia¬ 
ture blizzard. Gotch Ear, the huge she-wolf, in¬ 
stantly seized upon her opportunity. 

Late in February the shooting of her mate by 
young Joe Gale had been hint enough for her to 
shift from the Circle B range north across the 
divide. Since then she had kept warily beyond rifle 
shot of the Seven Up ranch. 

But the night storm offered perfect cover for a 
raid, and she had many hungry mouths to feed. She 
drifted down out of the bad lands like a gray-white 
wraith in that ghostly swirl of dim, wind-driven 
snow. Near the ranch she circled widely and came 
up-wind past the houses and horse corral and barn. 

As she expected, several of the cows with young 
calves had sought shelter under the lee of the feed 
sheds. It was no time to linger for sport — to 
gratify her blood-lust by a wanton slaughter of the 
helpless creatures. The night was cold. Her young 
cubs had urgent need of warmth as well as food. A 
running leap took her over the top rail of the high 
cow-corral. 


l 


2 


Branded 


Her keen nose led straight to the nearest cow. 
Under the cow’s flank her glaring greenish-yellow 
eyes made out the vague form of a huddled calf. She 
leaped in and broke the calf’s neck with a snap of 
her frightful jaws. Snorting with the fury of out¬ 
raged motherhood, the cow whirled to gore the gray 
killer. Gotch Ear backed off, keeping just beyond 
the sweep of the horn tips. The cow charged. 

When they were well away from the calf, the she- 
wolf leaped past the head of the cow and across 
behind her heels. Nimbly as the cow whirled, Gotch 
Ear was far swifter. In her cross-leap a snap of 
her great jaws hamstrung one of the cow’s hind 
legs. Easy then to bound in again and hamstring 
the other leg. 

The roar of the storm drowned the bellowing of 
the disabled cow. But Gotch Ear was far too crafty 
to take chances. She delayed a few moments to 
silence her victim. Then she darted back to the calf, 
ravenous with hunger. 

East as she sought to gorge herself, she was not 
yet fully glutted when a sudden change struck upon 
her extraordinarily keen senses. The freak squall 
had either swept past or blown itself out. The 
storm blast lulled and died, as if spent by its own 
violence. No less abruptly, the snow ceased to fall. 

Off over the hills stars began to twinkle. Gotch 
Ear was already streaking away from the feed corral 
at top speed. She had been hunted far too often not 
to know the advantage that the clear prints of her 
trail in the snow would give to pursuers. She headed 



Prelude 


3 


northwest, at a wide angle from the route along 
which she had come from her lair. 

With the first faint graying of daylight Joe Gale 
opened his ruddy brown eyes, yawned, and glanced 
out through the slide window of the Seven Up’s old 
log bunk-house. Two seconds later he had on his 
dilapidated high-heeled riding boots and was yank¬ 
ing the blankets off the bunk of his older cousin, 
Parlen Brent. 

“ Roll out! ” he yelled. “ Snow! If old Gotch 
called last night, here’s our chance.” 

His eyes burned with eagerness. Ever since the 
lucky day in midwinter when he had blundered upon 
Gotch Ear’s white-haired mate, both he and Parlen 
had tried to get leave from their uncle, Taylor Brent, 
to follow the she-wolf over the divide. After months 
of refusal, Brent had at last given his grudging 
assent for them to go. 

Luck seemed to have ridden with them. Withered 
little old Kiowa Orton had welcomed the boys to the 
Seven Up only the previous afternoon, yet here 
already was this best of all luck for them — a spread 
of new snow. 

“Hop to it!” Joe shouted in the ear of his delib¬ 
erate cousin. “You saddle up. I’ll circle for tracks. 
If we find hers, we’ve got to hit the high places ’fore 
the snow melts.” 

Out he rushed, heedless of the uncomplimentary 
remarks of the disturbed Seven Up punchers. Par¬ 
len was already sliding into his boots. He did not 



4 


Branded 


rush to the horse corral. Rushing was not his style. 
He made a brisk beeline for — the ranch kitchen. 

The black smoke of a pitch-pine fire was pouring 
from the old stone chimney. Between round-ups 
Kiowa Orton saved cook’s wages by wrangling pots 
and pans herself. Parlen found her frying ham. 
Little Mary, her granddaughter, was stamping out 
biscuits with a baking-powder can. Her first panful 
was in the oven, and the coffee pot was splattering 
on the red-hot stove top. 

44 Morning, Aunt Ki,” said Parlen. 44 Mind if I 
set to? Joe thinks we ought to hit out soon’s we 
can.” 

Before the young fellow could seat himself at the 
bench beside the table, ham, biscuits, and coffee were 
slammed down in front of him. 

44 Pitch in,” urged the owner of the Seven Up. 
44 Hustle. I’ll split a ten-spot betwixt you’n Joe 
’fyou get that murdering she-devil. She’s cost me 
’round three hundred dollars since you made the 
Circle B too hot for her.” 

Parlen did his best to comply. But he had not 
yet finished his second helping of ham and biscuits 
when Joe burst in, wild with joy. 

“ Whoopee! It’s a dead-run trail! She got a cow 
and calf ’longside your feed sheds, Aunt Ki. If Pari 
wasn’t such a hog, we’d be after her a’ready — 
C’mon, you glutton!” 

Out he dashed, with Mary at his heels. Even old 
Kiowa beat Parlen to the horse corral. She saw her 
granddaughter’s saddle jerked off the top rail by 



Prelude 


5 


the slim girlish arms, and she well knew what a ride' 
into the hills with reckless Joe would mean. Yet she, 
hurried past without a word, angrily intent upon 
viewing the last evidence of Gotch Ear’s murderous¬ 
ness. 

Mary’s saddle slapped on the back of her buck¬ 
skin pony before Parlen so much as roped his horse. 
He shook his head at her. 

44 Better stay home, kiddie. We’ll have to ride.” 

The girl had 44 forked a hoss ” for eleven of her 
fourteen years. Parlen’s jeer and Joe’s grin were 
not needed to hop her into the saddle. With yellow 
pigtail flying, she flung herself up and on her buck¬ 
skin. He got under way only a jump behind hasty 
Joe’s broncho. 

Even a city man could have followed the she- 
wolf’s trail at a gallop. As soon as the ponies 
warmed up, Joe spurred into a dead run, and he did 
not draw rein until the hills humped out of the bench- 
land. By this time Parlen’s better horse had brought 
him up with the leaders. But the older cousin did 
not take the lead. He was well content to let Joe 
set the pace. It was already slackening to a canter 
on the first slope. 

Though hot tempered, Joe was not cruel. He 
soon let his pony slow into a j og. A little more, and 
the jog became a walk. The cunning Gotch Ear had 
struck into the very worst and wildest tangles of 
rocks and ravines and chaparral. Here was riding 
not only hard and slow but often dangerous. The 
dashing chase became a tedious and difficult crawl. 



Branded 


Hours were spent getting the horses up and down, 
through and over places where the crafty she-wolf 
had bounded at full speed. Yet throughout it all 
little Mary stuck close behind Joe, no less keen to 
keep on. She was still more hopeful than he that 
around each next turn of canon or ravine, or atop 
each successive ridge, they would “jump” the calf- 
killer. 

Not so Parlen Brent. He had already lost heart. 
Hours past he had carefully weighed the odds 
against them. He knew there was not one chance 
in a thousand of their overtaking Gotch Ear in this 
most broken part of the Yamparos. But he also 
knew what Joe would call him if he should suggest 
that they turn back. To keep on was a silly waste 
of time and effort. However, he could stand it if 
the others could. He had wisely taken care to eat 
his fill before starting. Joe and Mary had rushed 
off without a bite. 

His patience at last had its reward. Even the 
bullheaded stick-to-it-tiveness of Joe could not hold 
to a trail that faded away under their eyes. During 
the two weeks before the belated little blizzard, the 
spring weather had softened the harsh crags and 
savage canons of the Yamparos with the cheerful 
green of new grass and unfolding leaf buds. With 
the passing of the night storm the May warmth had 
at once flowed back over the snow-sheeted land, to 
melt the untimely chill with its mellow breath. 

The sun had come up almost fiercely aglow. By 
noon its burning rays had melted all the snowdrifts 



Prelude 


7 


except the deepest ones in the shade of north-facing 
cliffs. The last faint traces of Gotch Ear’s trail 
led up the slope of a steep ridge. On the stony top 
not a fleck of snow was left to betray the huge 
tracks of the giant she-wolf. Stubborn Joe at last 
had to admit they had reached the end of the trail. 

44 I’m no quitter — like somebody who’s been ach¬ 
ing all morning to lay down,” he gibed at his cousin. 
“All the samee, an Injin couldn’t track that she-devil 
one more step.” 

“Course not,” agreed Mary. “You’ve kept on 
miles and miles, when Pari would ’a’ hit in for 
chuck.” 

44 Sure I’d have headed in — like anyone with a 
lick of sense,” agreed Parlen. 

Joe shifted his rifle to thump his fist on his old 
leather chaps. 

“Gosh it all! Shut your ears, Mary, so’s I can 
cuss. I’d ’a’ bet my boots that trail meant we had 
a dead cinch on nailing old Gotch. For it to go 
and peter out this way — dang the luck!” 

“I’m awful hungry,” confessed Mary. “Can’t 
you shoot a cottontail? It’ll take hours to ride in.” 

44 1 told you to stay home,” Parlen reminded her 
in the exasperating grown-up tone of his twenty 
years. 

“Aw, button up your lip,” advised Joe. “She 
had a right to come if she wanted. Don’t you mind, 
Mary. We’ll cut ’cross country. ’Twon’t take 
half’s long getting back as coming. Watch my 
smoke.” 



8 


Branded 


Parlen loped after his companions to where the 
ridge dropped off into a small box canon. Not even 
a burro could have worked down that almost sheer 
forty-foot wall of rock. But at the bottom Gotch 
Ear’s tracks could be plainly seen, stamped deep in 
the slushy snow of a drift. 

The horses had started to crop the tender new 
grass in an open level between the crags. Joe tossed 
the reins over the ears of his broncho and scrambled 
down the fissure in the cliff face. Mary followed. 
Parlen sneered as he tagged in on the wild-goose 
chase. What was the use of wearing out leather? 
Joe’s boots were even more dilapidated than his own. 
Besides, by this time, Gotch Ear must be miles away. 
Only, if he tried to turn back, Joe would scratch him 
hard with his all-too-ready taunts and dares. 

The wolf tracks led down-canon. Rifle ready, Joe 
stole around the sharp turn to the left. He peered 
beyond and drew back to put his finger to his lips 
and point upwards. First Mary and then Parlen 
crept forward to stare at the cave mouth on the 
brink of the canon’s left wall. Narrow ledges zig¬ 
zagged up the cliff to the shelf that ran out from 
the side of the small opening under the enormous 
top-crag boulders. 

“We’ve got her holed!” whispered Joe. 

He handed his rifle to Mary, looked at his pistol, 
and started to climb. She shoved the rifle into Par- 
len’s hand and followed her leader. After due con¬ 
sideration, Parlen laid down both his own and Joe's 
rifles. He wanted his hands free on those ledges. 



Prelude 


9 


At the top Joe stole along the rock shelf to a 
niche beside the jutting corner of the cave mouth. 
He leaned around on the narrowed ledge to smell. 
The rank odor from the cave told him what he had 
hoped to learn. He slid back to draw his pistol. 
Mary was at his heels. He scowled and jerked his 
thumb for her to huddle back into the niche. An¬ 
other jerk beckoned his cousin, who was just pulling 
himself up on the shelf. 

When Parlen at last crept along the flat rock to 
the niche, Joe squeezed around the corner. His 
cousin would have paused to weigh the chances. Joe 
only grinned with the relish of the adventure. Yet 
he was certain that somewhere back in that black 
hole lurked Gotch Ear. Even a cornered rat will 
fight. Gotch Ear was the biggest, craftiest, most 
murderous wolf ever seen in the Yamparos. And 
Joe had every reason to believe she was guarding a 
litter of young cubs. She would fight like a demon. 
In the blackness he would have only her glaring eyes 
to guide his aim. He crawled into the dark hole. 

Parlen had drawn his own pistol. He hesitated, 
caught the scornful glance of Mary, and followed 
his cousin. The girl flung herself forward to peer 
around into the cave. She quivered with fearsome 
delight. Every moment she expected to hear the 
ferocious snarl of the she-wolf and the roar of Joe’s 
pistol. Instead came only the glint of a reflected 
match-flare on a turn in the cave passage. As the 
light flickered out, the cave boomed with Joe’s angry 
shout: 



10 


Branded 


“Vamoosed, dang it all! Here’s her back door.” 

Parlen’s sharp answer sounded less muffled: 

“Her pups! Strike another light.” 

Along with the succession of match flares that fol¬ 
lowed came exclamations, little squeals, yelps, and 
thuds; then a wrangling dispute between the boys, 
begun by Parlen. 

“ Here, stop it. You can’t do that.” 

“Can’t I, though? See there— No, you don’t! 
Leave go, or I’ll jab you, too.” 

“But a lobo pup, Joe?” 

“With the Seven Up ear-slit— Hands off, you 
rustler! It’s for the owner to say— Hey, Mary.” 

Around the turn thrust the head and forebody of 
Joe. He caught sight of the in-staring girl and 
called teasingly: 

“It’s all yours. Catch.” 

A yelping little ball of fur whirled through the 
air into Mary’s out-thrust hands. She drew back 
into the niche to look at her fuzzy gray prize. The 
wide-open greenish-yellow eyes of the tiny she-wolf 
told that she was at least three weeks old. But she 
was still too young and too terrified to show fight 
against the strange beings that had snatched her 
from among her still more luckless sisters and 
brothers. One of the despoilers had flung her out 
into the unknown world of dazzling sun glare; an¬ 
other now gripped her fast, despite all her feeble 
writhings and frantic yelps. 

Aglow with delight, Mary bent to caress her new 
pet. The smile stiffened on her lips. Her blue eyes 



Prelude 


11 


darkened. The tiny left ear of the cub had been top- 
slit with the Seven Up ear mark. 

“ Oh! oh, how cruel! You poor little thing! ” 

Regardless of stains from the oozing crimson, she 
cuddled the cub to her bosom. The softness and 
warmth soothed the terror of the baby lobo. Her 
ki-yi’s lulled to a hurt whimpering. 

Joe’s freckled face grinned at the two around the 
cave rock. At sight of him Mary’s eyes flashed. 

“You mean bad boy! To go and hurt the little 
darling that way! ” 

“Little devil! If you’d seen what I kept Pari 
from doing to her. He-” 

From up across the canon came a frightful scream 
— the cry of a horse in mortal agony. Joe dashed 
along the shelf ledge and up a sloping crag to where 
he could look over at the horses. The buckskin 
had already sunk down on the grass. The other 
horses, frantic with fear, were whirling and lashing 
out their heels. Around them bounded a gray-white 
beast, ferociously eager for an opening to dash in 
and slash their throats. 

Joe’s pistol began to blaze. He could not hope 
to hit the she-wolf at such long range. But, as he 
foresaw, at the report of his first shot she dashed 
from sight among the crags. He slithered down, to 
leap from ledge to ledge like a mountain sheep. 

Parlen had come out of the cave mouth with six or 
seven cub scalps tucked in his wide, brass-studded 
belt. He looked hard at the furry gray bundle in 
Mary’s arms. 




Branded 


12 


“ Sounded like a horse,” he said. “Must have 
been Gotch Ear after ’em, way Joe bust loose. If 
he hadn’t been fool enough to leave his rifle down 
below, he might have got the old she-devil. I’ve 
done my share — cleaned up on her pups — all but 
one. # Guess I’ll finish the job now.” 

Mary clasped the cub tighter to her bosom. 

“ Don’t you dare! If you lay a finger on it, I’ll 
— I’ll shove you over!” 

The childish threat brought a smile to young 
Brent’s handsome face. Yet, was the threat so alto¬ 
gether futile? The girl had the inside of the ledge, 
and she was bristling like a mother wildcat. Parlen 
cast a side glance down the thirty-foot drop into 
the canon. He sidled along the shelf and began 
cautiously to pick his way from ledge to ledge. 

Before Mary followed, she swung around into thh 
cave mouth. When Parlen lowered himself from the 
bottom ledge, she jumped down past him and darted 
around the turn of the canon. Joe was already top¬ 
ping the other wall. She scrambled up after him. 

The more deliberate Parlen found the girl with 
her back to the buckskin, weeping as if her heart 
would break. One slash of Gotch Ear’s fangs had 
ripped open the great vein in the pony’s throat. 
Joe was heaving hard to roll the body clear of the 
uncinched saddle. As it went over he turned to the 
grieving girl. 

“Aw, don’t cry, sis. The joke’s on Gotch Ear. 
She got your pony. But you’ve got her only pup 
that’s left.” 



Prelude 


13 


64 1 — I haven’t!” sobbed Mary. “I pu-put it 
back.” 

“You what?” demanded the scandalized Parlen. 
44 Turn loose a lobo pup — one of that she-devil’s 
brood! ” 

“Yes, I did! You’d have smashed it; and Joe 
went and hurt its ear. You ought both of you to 
be ’shamed of yourselves. The poor, tiny, helpless 
little thing!” 

Joe flung up his hands. Girls sure were funny. 

His cousin ignored the silly child’s outburst. 

44 My horse carries double. You bring her sad¬ 
dle,” he directed. 

Such an order bid fair to start a quarrel. A sad¬ 
dle was far more awkward to pack than a girl. But 
Joe did not heed the injustice. His thoughts had 
fixed upon another matter. 

44 Trot along. I’m going back to get old Gotch 
and Mary’s pup.” 

Down the cliff he scrambled, with even more reck¬ 
less haste than at his first descent. 

His cousin and Mary were jogging aslant the 
ridge end, more than two miles away, when he over¬ 
took them. With him he brought the girl’s saddle 
and bridle, but no wolf scalp or cub. 

44 Shucks ! ” he gibed at Mary. 44 You sure played 
hob, sis. The old devil beat me to it. She done 
vamoosed with your Seven Up pup. Sneaked in at 
her back door ’fore I got back. Inside three months 
your poor abused little petty-babe’ll be learning 
how to pull down calves.” 



14 


Branded 


“ I don’t care! ” Mary sought to defend herself. 
“It was so soft and cuddly, and it cried and snug¬ 
gled up to me — and you hurt it, you wicked bad 
boy!” 

Joe only grinned. Parlen saw his chance for a 
double thrust. 

“You’re both a pair of fools. Joe wouldn’t let 
me knock it on the head, and you let it go. Wait till 
I tell Aunt Ki. Bet she spanks you and gives Joe a 
quirting. Why, Uncle Lor figures Gotch Ear has 
killed over ten thousand dollars’ worth of stock on 
the Circle B alone. If she lives long enough to teach 
that pup all her tricks-” 

“Aw, button up your lip,” broke in Joe. “ You’ve 
gone and set Mary to crying again.” 

Parlen shut his mouth. He was not realty afraid 
of his smaller, younger cousin. Only, unlike Joe, 
he saw no fun in fighting. He put on a look of con¬ 
temptuous indifference and rode along in silence. 
Almost automatically he began to consider the pos¬ 
sible money loss that might result from their failure 
to wipe out Gotch Ear and her last cub. 

His young mind was already as calculating, 
though not as cold, as that of his uncle, Taylor 
Brent. Unlike hasty, heedless Joe, he gave much 
thought to results and forecasts. 

But even he failed to catch the slightest inkling 
of the tremendous consequences in the lives of him¬ 
self and Joe Gale and Mary Orton that were to re¬ 
sult from the escape of one lone, slit-eared little wolf 
cub. 




CHAPTER I 


ONE FATEFUL MAVERICK 

F OUR times the four seasons had rolled over the 
Yamparos. 

The spring round-up of the big Circle B and the 
small Seven Up was almost finished. The ranges 
of the two outfits overlapped on the divide — that 
rough tongue thrust out by the Yamparos upon 
the rolling plains. Its small canons and thickets 
and ravines were now being combed by “Aunt Ki” 
Orton’s few riders and the many punchers of Tajdor 
Brent. 

Both owners fed their herds more or less through 
the winter. But during the fall round-up here on 
the divide, a severe early blizzard had drifted many 
of the wilder cattle back into the hills beyond reach. 
Several of these strays had perished from storm and 
starvation. As many more had been pulled down by 
wolves and mountain lions. Yet nearly three hun¬ 
dred head were routed out of the ravines and 
chaparral and driven in to the bunching-ground on 
the divide creek. 

Not even Joe Gale, just turned twenty-one, rode 
harder than seventy-year-old Kiowa Orton. Not 
even his uncle could spot a maverick or read a brand 
farther away than the hawk-eyed old Aunt Ki. In 
15 


16 


Branded 


face and figure she looked like a small bundle of 
browned and wrinkled buckskin, and she was tough 
as the leather of her old chaps. 

Hate no less than habit spurred her on to keep 
working at top speed. Men riding for Taylor Brent 
were, as a rule, all too ready to use their saddle- 
irons. A (jRj on a maverick, no matter how raw 


and fresh the burn, spelled to Taylor Brent absolute 
proof of ownership. Old Kiowa had just as strong 

convictions regarding the proof of her LP on the 
“nigh” shoulder of any animal. 

The rub lay in the fact that Brent had so many 
riders, while she could afford to keep only two hands 
beside Rocker, her half-wit horse wrangler. , Slender, 
golden-haired Mary, in the full blooming of her 
eighteenth year, was needed as cook for the little 
outfit. That prevented her from riding round-up 
with the others. Her grandmother’s unsavory pair 
of buckaroos, Hooch Huggins and Mex Chavez, who 
had only recently drifted into the Yamparo country, 
were none too zealous in the service of the barbed- 
tongued old cow-woman. So it was up to Kiowa 
Orton to carry her own saddle-iron and do her best 
to see every maverick first. 

The mothers of these unbranded yearlings had 
hidden out with them during the fall round-up, wdien 
all calves were supposed to receive their mark of 
ownership. Weaned and separated from their 
maternal parents, no prodf whatever could now be 
found to show whether they belonged either to the 



One Fateful Maverick 


IT 


Circle B or to the Seven Up. Old Kiowa was no 
less keen than Brent to get her iron on each and 
every unbranded animal. But Brent’s many riders 
gave him what the owner of the Seven Up considered 
an unfair advantage. 

The hot contest came to a head on the day set 
for cutting the herd and closing the round-up. On 
this last morning Joe Gale blundered upon a maver¬ 
ick in the chaparral not a mile from the bunching- 
ground. 

Like his cousin Parlen, Joe had spent every eve¬ 
ning at the Seven Up campfire. This particular 
morning he may have been still dazed from the 
kindly look he had seen in Mary’s blue eyes when 
she had said good night to him. Certainly he had 
as little love for termagant old Aunt Ki as for his 
flint-eyed uncle. His matter-of-course procedure as 
a Circle B rider should have been to rope and brand 
the yearling. Instead, he drove the maverick to the 
bunching-ground, unbranded. 

All other members of both outfits had gathered 
for the cutting of the herd. Even Mary sat a Seven 
Up pony, behind her grandmother and Taylor 
Brent. Sight of Parlen murmuring in the girl’s ear 
stung Joe to indignant anger. Heedless of all con¬ 
sequences, he sought to win Mary’s attention. 

“ Hi! ” he sang out. “ Where’s Solomon and the 
mamas. Here’s the baby.” 

Little old Limpy Smith, the Circle B’s top-rider, 
caught the joke and burst into a cackling laugh. 
Big Sw T ede, his “ side-kick,” opened a mouth like a 



18 


Branded 


bullfrog’s and bellowed — net that he saw anything 
to laugh at, but just to keep his buddy company. 

Kiowa Orton thrust out a gauntlet-gloved hand 
at the hilarious pair. 

46 You — choke that blatt. Rocker, fetch an iron 
— pronto! That’s a Seven Up calf.” 

44 Hold on,” ordered Brent, cold and quiet and 
hard-eyed. 44 You’re a bit previous, Aunt Ki 
What’s mine is mine. Look at that Circle B cow 
yonder. This yearling has exactly her markings —• 
red spot on face, three white stockings on same legs, 
white streak ’cross the off flank.” 

44 Do tell!” jeered the old cow-woman. 44 Long’s 
it’s a matter of markings, I’ll deal out two Seven Up 
mothers for him. Here, Chavez, put your rope on 
my calf.” 

The Mexican puncher rather slowly started to 
unloop his fancy braided-horsehair reata. Brent 
spoke a harsh command to his young nephew: 

44 Rope that Circle B yearling, you fool.” 

Joe had been weaving his horse from side to side 
to hold the frightened maverick in front of the bunch 
of riders. His rope swished. The noosed yearling 
bolted, only to somersault at the end of the taut 
rope. Swede deftly noosed both hind legs and 
stretched the struggling animal. 

Quick-witted Limpy Smith had sprinted after 
Rocker to the fire where branding-irons lay heating. 
The two men raced back, neck and neck, each with a 
white-hot iron. As they drew near, Kiowa Orton 
jumped her nimble broncho forward and whirled him 



One Fateful Maverick 


19 


in front of the maverick. Her clawlike left hand 
rested, ungloved, on her hip. She was lefthanded. 

44 Back up, Limpy,” she warned. 

The lame puncher jerked hard on his curb. He 
knew Kiowa Orton. Brent spoke in his stoniest 
tone: 

44 The Circle B goes on that maverick. Don’t be 
a fool, Aunt Ki. We’re four to one against you.” 

44 Four’s only a bobtail, you fourflusher,” scoffed 
the old woman. 44 Just you try beating me to the 
draw, ’fyou want action — you or any your bunch 
of hossthieves. Think I’ll sit here and let you rustle 
my calf right under my nose? Four to one, huh! 
I’ll get my one — you know who.” 

44 Now, now; that’s no way to talk,” reproved 
Brent. 44 It’s a matter of fair dealing. I’ve kept 
tally of every maverick brought in. You’ve man¬ 
aged to get every third away from me. Yet I’m 
running five head of cows to your one, here on the 
divide.” 

44 Do tell!” jeered Kiowa. 44 Didn’t think even 
you had gall ’nough to own up to it, Lor Brent — 
overstocking like that — hogging my grass. The 
divide was Seven Up range long ’fore you rustled 
your first bunch of cows.” 

Brent ignored the insult. He replied with the 
stony absence of all emotion that made him the most 
hated man in the Yamparo country. 

44 1 figure the Seven Up owes me a lot more dam¬ 
ages than the worth of a little grass. That slit-ear 
she-wolf already’s as murderous as old Gotch Ear 



Branded 


20 


at her worst. Between the two of them, they’ve 
slaughtered at least three thousand dollars’ worth of 
Circle B stock in the past year.” 

66 Lord, man, I sure do feel for you. I know every 
one them dollars hurts you like a yanked out tooth. 
But why come whining to me ’bout ’em?” 

ii Because it’s all on you. Though Gotch is now 
so old she hardly can kill a calf, that young she-devil 
she’s trained carries the Seven Up ear-slit, and it 
was your girl who turned the pup loose.” 

“How ’bout your boys failing to nail her and 
old Gotch, too, when they had the chance? Bad! 
I’ve had ’nough of your jaw. Here, you, Rocker, 
come on with that iron.” 

RocKer stopped the daft swaying in his saddle 
that gave him his nickname. He slipped to the 
ground with the branding-iron. Behind the back 
of the furious old woman Joe signaled to Swede. 
Each slackened off and flipped his rope. The mav¬ 
erick, suddenly freed, scrambled to his feet and 
dashed towards the herd, tail up, head down, and 
blatting. 

“Chavez — Hooch!” cried their lady boss. “Get 
him! ” 

The two Seven Up punchers looked at the flint- 
eyed owner of the Circle B, and hesitated. Kiowa 
withered them with a blast of fierce scorn: 

“ Skunks ! Quitters ! ” 

Lanky, red-nosed Hooch Huggins growled for 
himself and his Mexican mate: 

All right. Quitters she is. We ain’t going to 




One Fateful Maverick 


21 


swaller no more your tobasco, Aunt Ki. Me and 
Mex calls you for our time.” 

“I can use both you boys on the Circle B,” said 
Brent. 44 You’re hired.” 

Joe glimpsed the distressed face of Mary, and 
rushed in where angels feared to tread. 

64 Aw, Uncle Lor, le’s call quits. We can’t fight 
a lady. Solomon said to cut the baby in two and 
make an even divvy. Why not go havvers on the 
maverick with Aunt Ki? Le’s barbecue the fatted 
calf.” 

44 Shut up,” ordered Brent. 

Parlen had bent to catch a dismayed murmur from 
Mary. For once in his life he spoke on impulse. 

44 See here, Uncle Lor, you oughtn’t to hire Aunt 
Ki’s men. She needs them. Besides, it’s not fair 
to me. Only last week you again put off starting 
me on wages. Claimed you already had more men 
on pay than you can afford. Yet I’m past twenty- 
four, and better than these stray buckaroos from 
New Mexico, and besides-” 

44 That will do,” interrupted Brent. 44 After all 
the years I have taken care of you and Joe, you 
both should be grateful enough to work out a little 
of what you owe me. You will — if you figure on 
ever coming in for a share in my brand.” 

The reminder sobered Parlen. But as he started 
to wilt, Joe swung around close before their uncle. 

44 Grateful!” he burst out. 44 Sure, we ought to 
be mighty grateful. Haven’t you fed us rotten 
chuck all these years? Haven’t you let us wear out 





22 


Branded 


jour castoff duds? Why, jou even let me jingle 
horses for the round-up soon’s I could fork a saddle. 
Grateful! All these years you’ve worked Pari and 
me harder than your bronchos — fifteen years with 
never a cent to rattle in our jeans, and always a 
howl from you when our rags got so holey they 
dropped off us and you had to pry open your fat 
purse to buy us the cheapest shoddy. Grateful! 
Why-” 

“ Enough. That will do, I say.” 

“ Sure, it’s enough! Sure, it’ll do ! Look at Part’s 
and my clothes now — and we men grown and A-one 
riders. Grateful! You, the biggest cowman within 
three days’ ride, and we in these rags!” 

Pired for the second time beyond caution, Parlen 
ventured to repeat his especial grievance. 

“Never any wages at all! Yet even before we 
could ride, we earned our salt doing chores. You 
know we did, Uncle Lor.” 

Not in many years had any. member of Taylor 
Brent’s outfit so flouted him to his face. From his 
nephews the offense was doubly outrageous. He 
paused to consider how best to crush the insolent 
young rebels. 

Kiowa Orton saw a chance to strike back. 

“I’m looking for a pair of real punchers,” she 
said. “You boys are hired.” 

“Hired?” questioned the astonished Parlen. 
“But — but what pay?” 

“Pay be — hanged!” cried Joe. “We’ll at least 
get decent keep; maybe thanks, to boot. Here we 




One Fateful Maverick 


23 


are, outfitted worse than sheepherders. Fifteen 
years of rags — yes, and fifteen years of working 
our heads off for Uncle Lor, with never a smile or 
a kind word!” 

“You’ll find the pay all right,” promised Kiowa. 
“It’ll be top wages. You’re my men now. Go 
brand that calf of mine.” 

“If you do—” threatened Brent. 

But Joe’s pony had already whirled to sprint 
away. Parlen hesitated. His wavering glance met 
the surprised gaze of Mary. His horse loped off 
after Joe’s. Rocker followed with the still red-hot 
branding-iron. 

Old Kiowa rested her left hand on the butt of her 
ancient Colts. Her hawk eyes narrowed at Brent. 

“What say, you fourfiusher? I’ve called your 
bluff. Ain’t going to lay down, are you?” 

“ Cackle all you want,” replied Brent, unmoved. 
“You know I have never believed in needless blood¬ 
shed. But before we get through with each other, 
you will pay me in full for that yearling. Enough 
of this now. We’ve already lost too much time over 
your foolishness. We should have had the cutting 
well under way.” 



CHAPTER II 


for mart’s sake 

T HROUGHOUT the cutting of the herd Brent 
overlooked the work from a little knoll, silent 
and aloof. All other members of both outfits joined 
in the lively scramble of separating the Seven Up 
and Circle B cattle and holding the two bunches 
apart. 

Though too niggardly to hire a foreman, Brent 
never raised a finger to help his men. Yet he always 
saw to it that every person in his employ worked for 
him hard and skillfully. If any man slacked or 
blundered, he promptly lost his job. 

His nephews had now chosen to leave his outfit. 
He neither spoke to them nor sent them any mes¬ 
sages. As soon as the last cows and steers of the 
mixed herd were cut, he rode over to his chuck- 
wagon, without so much as a parting glance at 
Kiowa Orton and her riders. 

Mary had helped Rocker hold the Seven Up bunch 
while her grandmother took active part in the cut¬ 
ting with her new riders. Amidst the wildly milling 
mass of heavy Hereford bodies and tossing horns, 
the old cow-woman had found no time to nurse her 
anger against Taylor Brent. 

But at a hint from her, Joe and Parlen had kept 
turning back the freshly branded maverick into the 
24 


For Mary's Sake 


25 


mixed herd. The taunt of the dare was so aggra¬ 
vating that, under any other circumstances, wise old 
Limpy Smith himself would have been “ riled ” into 
taking it up. 

As it was, he could not have resented the insult 
even if the taunter had been a man. He had to con¬ 
sider Joe. From the time the boy had been dropped 
at the Circle B ranch by his shiftless father, Limpy, 
in his crude way, had done his best to be both father 
and mother to him. 

In lesser degree, the other Circle B riders felt the 
traditional aversion of Western men to attacking 
a woman. Several of the men, however, were too 
much like those shady newcomers to the Yamparo 
country, Mex Chavez and Hooch Huggins, to share 
the liking of Limpy for straight-forward, hot-headed 
Joe Gale. 

Parlen Brent was neither liked nor disliked by 
anyone. He lacked both his uncle’s repellent cold¬ 
ness and his cousin’s winning warmth. But his sound 
judgment on everything relating to “ cow ” compelled 
respect. Even his uncle had at times listened to his 
carefully calculated suggestions. 

As clincher against any attempt to haze the Seven 
Up outfit, there was Mary. Even had the itch of the 
Circle B riders to take up her grandmother’s chal¬ 
lenge been twice as urgent, the presence of the girl 
would have been enough to rope and hog-tie them. 
They could neither “smoke up” the smaller outfit 
with their Colts, nor stampede Aunt Ki’s herd. They 
could not so much as riddle that maddening maverick. 



Branded 


26 


In vain Kiowa flaunted her fourlegged dare in the 
faces of her enemy’s hirelings. Coached by Limpy, 
they stopped their mutterings and pretended not to 
see the yearling and his raw brand. At the end 
they simply rode between him and the last half dozen 
Circle B cows, and headed for their grazing herd. 

Big Swede waved a friendly farewell to Joe. 
Limpy called out a parting word of advice: 

“Play your luck, kid. Miss Mary’s some cook. 
Hey, Aunt Ki, ’f you need a top-hand, mebbe I can 
be bribed to shift my mount.” 

“You can, can you? Well, let me tell you, 
straight out, I’ll have no truck with any old brand- 
blotter who’s been rustling my calves for Lor Brent 
ever since he hung a Circle B iron on his saddle.” 

Limpy scratched his head. 

“Uh — just supposing that’s so, Aunt Ki, I must 
’a’ had a whole lot of practise. Mebbe I could 
handle one your irons slick ’nough to get you back 
some your calves.” 

“ I don’t need ’em, nor you. Tell your boss from 
me, I’ve got his maverick and I’ve got both his boys. 
He’ll get back neither.” 

The parting shot brought a smile to the old cow- 
woman’s withered lips as she turned her back on the 
Circle B. She had exercised a woman’s right to the 
last word. That word had been a taunt sharp 
enough to get under Taylor Brent’s hide — or 
rather, through the far tougher leather of his 
pocketbook. Touch that, and you pierced him to 
the quick. 



For Mary's Sake 


27 


The taunt would keep working in deeper, like a 
porcupine quill. It would burn and fester his very 
soul — if anyone as cold-blooded and selfish and mean 
as Taylor Brent could have a soul. She knew him 
inside and out — had known him for years. He 
would brood over the loss of that maverick, not be¬ 
cause he had been out-played and out-dared, but 
because of the few dollars the yearling was worth in 
money. 

Best of all, there was her taking of his nephews 
from him. He would stew over the loss of them, not 
because of hurt affection! She had deprived him 
of the services of two expert riders, who had cost 
only their stinted keep. To this injury was added 
the insult of their going to ride for her. 

Kiowa Orton chuckled with malicious mirth. She 
had scratched the men who had hogged her grass 
on the divide. So pleased was she that she did not 
stop either of the two boys when both loped off after 
Mary to help the girl load the chuck-wagon. 

They came loitering back, each close enough to a 
forewheel of the wagon to rub his worn chaps on the 
tire. Kiowa and Rocker had started to drive the 
bunch of cattle north towards the home ranch. The 
old woman looked from the eager young men to the 
flushed and smiling face of her granddaughter. She 
pursed her lips. 

That offer of top wages had not been necessary. 
Even Parlen would have shifted to the Seven Up for 
half pay. But she did not regret the offer. For one 
thing, it had helped her jab into Taylor Brent the 



Branded 


28 


full realization of what he had lost by her hiring of 
his nephews. For another thing, though she believed 
as strongly as he in working all hands to the limit, 
she did not begrudge paying fair wages. 

Of course she paid nothing to Mary for her work. 
Women members of a family never received nor ex¬ 
pected wages. Besides, the girl was the last of the 
Ortons. She would inherit the Seven Up — unless 
her grandmother saw fit to make a will to the con¬ 
trary. That was different from the position of the 
boys with their tight-fisted uncle. Taylor Brent had 
many other heirs-at-law. If he had made a will in 
favor of Parlen and Joe, he was very apt, after what 
had happened, to sign a new one, cutting them off 
with a dollar. 

Small chance now of bolstering the worn old Seven 
Up with any prospective partition of the Circle B 
range or cows. But Mary was old enough to get 
married. It was high time to begin thinking of the 
future. 

She, Kiowa, intended to live to ninety or a hun¬ 
dred. Not even to herself — much less to others — 
would she admit that she no longer relished a hard 
day’s ride. She was still chuckful of vim and hustle 
and the will-to-do. Yet she did not feel quite as 
young as in past years. Somehow her tough little 
old body sagged and gave under the jolts and twists 
and all-day pounding of round-ups. Yes, it was time 
to think of the future. 

Of the two boys, Joe was far and away the most 
likable. But so had been his father — before liquor 



For Mary's Sake 


29 


got the better of him. Joe had all his father’s gen¬ 
erosity and friendly warmth. No less, he had his 
recklessness and hasty temper. So far, the cold 
harsh rule of Taylor Brent seemed to have kept the 
boy straight. Yet with fat wages in his pocket, it 
was at least six to half a dozen he would turn his 
wolf loose. He might even take to his father’s great 
failing. 

Parlen, on the other hand, was not one to bury his 
wages and his talents, or to waste time on riotous 
living. He was no prodigal son. He could be 
counted upon to put his substance out to usury. At 
five-and-forty, given half a chance, he would be as 
rich or richer than his uncle. Of course he was not 
so agreeable to have around as was Joe. But what 
did agreeableness count, when it came to building up 
a biff outfit from a run-down brand like the old Seven 
Up? 

As well, though, to sit back for a while and play 
a safe game. With new clothes, Parlen might get 
“upetty.” Within a day’s ride of the Seven Up 
were girls who had been to boarding school and 
whose fathers could tally almost two-thirds as many 
head of cows as Taylor Brent. It would be a good 
idea to quicken Parlen’s slow smouldering with sight 
of Joe’s fire. Mary was a dutiful child. She of 
course would obey her grandmother’s wishes. 

The day’s drive to the old Seven Up ranch proved 
as enjoyable to Mary as to Joe and Parlen. She 
was as utterly lacking in coquetry as in any con¬ 
sciousness of her grandmother’s plans. To her Joe 



30 


Branded 


and Parlen were still only the good friends she had 
known since her early childhood. She had no 
slightest idea that to each of them she had this spring 
suddenly become the One Woman. So far neither 
was fearful enough of the other’s chances to have 
shown any bitterness of rivalry. 

The day after their arrival at the Seven Up Joe 
asked leave to go to town. Though he was no 
“ dude,” his outburst against his uncle had betrayed 
how keenly his feeling for Mary made him aware of 
his mean clothes. He came back in regulation over¬ 
alls, shirt and leather vest, but with the best boots 
and hat to be bought in the little cow-town on the 
railroad. His blue silk kerchief so caught Mary’s 
eye that he promptly forced it upon her. 

Sight of his cousin’s new attire roused Parlen to 
consciousness of his own appearance. He came back 
from town with less expensive boots and hat, but 
with two shirts and a kerchief that would stand hard 
wear. 

Mary was too unspoiled for the new clothes to 
make any difference in her feelings. Though she 
was glad the boys had what they wanted, she had 
liked them just as much in their old things. The 
change, however, had given the cousins greater self- 
confidence. Both began more openly to* show their 
admiration and to seek Mary’s favor. 

Kiowa was not slow to see her opportunity and 
to take advantage of it. She started to drive her 
new punchers hard. No chance now of their balk¬ 
ing or quitting. For the first time in her life, she 



For Mary's Sake 


31 


eased off a little on herself. But she worked her 
riders to the limit. They found little time to idle. 

Yet neither complained. Even Parlen showed an 
eager willingness to carry out all orders. For one 
thing, at its very worst the rule of Aunt Ki was a 
joke compared with the stony harshness of their 
uncle. They were inured to hard conditions and con¬ 
stant nagging. Kiowa, instead of finding fault with 
their work, heartened them with a degree of ap¬ 
preciation. Then there was Mary’s cooking — and 
Mary herself. Joe would have eaten coyote poison, 
if she had chosen to offer it to him. 

Last but not least — to Parlen — instead of work¬ 
ing him and Joe for the cheapest of clothes and 
coarsest of chuck, their new boss gave them the full 
top wages she had promised. On their first pay day 
Parlen opened an account at the Stockmen’s Bank. 
Joe spent all his wages to buy Mary a fancy saddle. 

The fact that Mary’s old saddle was quite as 
serviceable as any new one made no difference to Joe. 
He wanted to make her a gift, and he could think of 
none that would have more pleased himself. That a 
girl might fancy something different never entered 
his head. 

Night had fallen when he reached the ranch. He 
turned his tired pony loose in the horse corral and 
lugged the new saddle to the house. All aglow, he 
pushed into the kitchen and laid his gift on the lamp- 
lit table before Mary. 

“What d’you say about that for a beaut?” he 
demanded. 



82 


Branded 


“Oh, Joe, it is! See the hand-carving, Gran’ma. 
But it must have cost ever so much.” 

“What if it did? Nothing’s too good for you.” 

“Me?” 

“ Of course. I don’t hanker for frills myself. It’s 
for you.” 

“ O-oh! Oh, thank you, Joe! Only you shouldn’t 
have.” 

Parlen strongly agreed. 

“You’re right, Mary. Joe hasn’t a lick of sense. 
A plain stock saddle is just as useful and will wear 
better than this fancy thing. He ought to’ve put 
his wages in savings bank, the way I’m doing.” 

As Kiowa started to> commend the sound reasoner 
she noticed the soft light in Mary’s eyes. With 
shrewd judgment she held her tongue. The girl 
had always been docile. If now she became fractious 
she must be made to obey, even if she had to be 
busted. But there might be no need of spur and 
curb. She had always responded best to gentling. 

Next day, when both young men were off in the 
hills with half-witted Rocker, the old cow-woman 
approached the issue in a seemingly casual manner. 

“Wasn’t that just Joe all over — blowing in all 
his first wages on a saddle for you?” 

“ Yes.” Mary faced around to where the ornate 
gift hung on the wall. She drew in a pensive sigh. 
“Yes, it’s just like him, Gran’ma. He’s so gener¬ 
ous and — impulsive. He shouldn’t have spent so 
much.” 

“ Dunno but what you’re right,” conceded Kiowa. 



For Mary's Sake 


S3 


“ I don’t like to think of it, but it’s just the way his 
pa started in. Generosity’s a good thing — if you 
balance it with good hoss sense in t’other side the 
saddlebags. His pa hadn’t a lick of sense. He let 
his liking to give stack up till it sort of sagged him 
off his balance.” 

“ But — but how can anyone be too generous ? 
It’s the grandest, noblest thing in the world, 
Gran’ma.” 

“No, ’tain’t, not by a long shot — not if it gets 
the bloat, like a cow on new grass. ’Sides, with his 
pa — I ain’t saying a thing ’gainst him, mind you — 
with his pa I figger ’twasn’t so much real dyed-in- 
the-wool generosity as ’twas a sort of vanity. He 
wanted to show off and make folks crack him up.” 
“Oh-h-” 

“Mebbe ’twas also to rile Brent. It hurt Lor 
like poison to-” 

Kiowa paused to cram her bitterness down out 
of sight. 

66 Lor was like Parlen in those' days — sensible and 
nice. He’d ’a’ made a mighty good provider. Only 
your pa cut in ahead when Lor thought he had his 
rope on your ma. That soured him on your pa and 
me and everything in general. With a good wife 
like her — you take after her a lot, Mary — with a 
good wife like her, he’d ’a’ turned out a mighty good 
sensible sort like Parlen’s going to be.” 

Mary looked again at the saddle. 

“ If only Joe had made it a bag of candy, and put 
the rest in savings, like Parlen.” 





34 


Branded 


“That’s it,” agreed Kiowa. She screwed up her 
wrinkled lips as if trying to say no more. “ Ye-es — 
Pity of it is he’s so likable — just like his pa before 
him. That prodigal son in the Bible must ’a’ been 
a dead ringer for Joe’s pa. Bound to spread him¬ 
self, friendly as a yeller pup—and as ready to 
snap.” 

“Joe never snapped at me — never!” 

“ Course not, I was talking ’bout his pa. I don’t 
guess Joe wouldn’t never even snarl at you — least- 
ways ’less he took to drink, like his pa did. I do 
hope he’ll never get his first taste of likker. You 
know how the habit runs in some families. Joe’s pa 
died of it, just like old Grandad Gale before him.” 

“But Joe never drinks. He’s like Parlen that 
way. He told me so.” 

“He did? Well, Pm mighty glad to hear it. 
That means he’s pretty safe, ’less some skunk asks 
him to take a swig, and that friendly softness of his 
keeps him from saying no. One drink of likker will 
set him going, just the way it did his pa. It’s in the 
Gale blood. I hope he never gets a taste. He’s a 
mighty likable boy.” 

Mary gazed out through the little slide window in 
the log wall. 

“ Then you do like him some, Gran’ma? ” 

“What else? He’s easy to get along with when 
he’s not riled, and he’s as good a top-hand as Parlen. 
If he don’t take to drink, he can be counted on — 
to work for others. Course, though, he’ll never save 
up and get his own brand, like Parlen will. He’ll 



For Mary's Sake 


35 


always be just a hand, like his pa before him. His 
pa always blew in his wages, even before he took to 
likker and gambling. He never owned mor’n his hoss 
and saddle and rope. Nary a cow — less it was true 
what folks said ’bout him taking to rustling after 
he went off the last time. All I know is Lor Brent 
got a bunch of cows from him to pay for Joe’s rear¬ 
ing.” 

“ The old skinflint! ” cried Mary, her blue eyes 
flashing. “He’s worked Joe like a slave all these 
years.” 

“Sure he has. Parlen, too. Only don’t forget 
he used to be different. He’s ’a’ been a good man 
’f he’d had your ma to keep him kindly. As for 
Joe, him being so like his pa, you can Agger for 
yourself what he’d be now if Lor hadn’t took him in 
hand and given him such a strict raising — poor 
boy! ” 

To this Mary found no reply, and her grand¬ 
mother at once started to talk about other matters. 
Anything more at this time might have spoiled the 
effect. She was satisfied to wait and let what she 
had said sink in. 



CHAPTER III 


WOLF PLAY 

H EEDLESS and eager, Joe was slow to be¬ 
come aware of the intangible barrier of re¬ 
serve that came up between him and Mary. In his 
certainty of her candor and friendship he could not 
see the change. 

Her grandmother was not so blinded. She 
chuckled to herself over the success of that shrewd 
talk about the boy’s father. But the more cautious 
Parlen kept a closer watch than ever on the words 
and looks of the girl he had picked out to make his 
wife. 

Had Joe perceived the difference in Mary’s atti¬ 
tude towards him, his hasty nature would have made 
him plunge in at once to find out what it meant. 
While he still blundered along in the daze of his own 
feelings, a new player entered the game. 

The cattle-slaughtering daughter of Gotch, Ear 
had been driven from the Circle B range, as had been 
her mother before her, by the death of her mate. 
She drifted north across the divide, accompanied by 
half a dozen three-months cubs and old Gotch Ear 
herself. 

The aged killer had become so stiff and feeble that 
she would have died of starvation during the past 
winter if she had not driven off coyotes from the 
36 


Wolf Play 


37 


carcasses left by her daughter and her daughter’s 
mate. Since the shooting of the mate, her slit-eared 
daughter had permitted her to tail in with the cubs. 

Though now hardly able to pull down a young 
calf, the old she-wolf was, if possible, even more 
cunning than in her prime. North of the divide, safe 
from the incessant hunting and harrying of Brent’s 
riders, she set to helping her daughter train the six 
big fuzzy cubs. 

For a time the happy lobo family had a glorious 
wolf festival of killing and gorging. Many cows 
with calves had been lured far back into the hills by 
the later, more tender grass. The slit-eared she- 
wolf, like her mother in her prime, never lingered 
by a kill or returned to it. That meant danger from 
man — the greatest of all killers. Her habit was to 
pull down her game, glut herself as quickly as pos¬ 
sible, and steal away to her lair or a distant part 
of her run, until the passing of two suns brought her 
renewed hunger. 

Now, however, such extreme caution was unneces¬ 
sary. They were clear of the country where men 
sought night and day to trap or trail down herself 
and her family. Also, her mother took turns in keep¬ 
ing watch while the cubs were being taught their 
lessons. 

Instead of a calf every third day or so, one or 
even two were pulled down with each round of the 
sun. Along with the calf the she-wolf usually killed 
the mother cow, either to prevent interference, or to 
gratify her blood-lust. It was sport for her, and 



38 


Branded 


gave her cubs instruction by example. As a rule, she 
would hamstring each cow and leave it to snort and 
bawl in helpless torment while Gotch Ear showed 
the cubs how to pull down and kill the calf. The 
cow would then be killed in the most expert manner. 

After one hasty meal the wolf family would leave 
the carcasses of the cow and calf to the coyotes 
and magpies and an occasional carrion-eating bear. 
Sometimes neither cow nor calf were touched by the 
killers. Such were the occasions when, already 
gorged, they butchered their victims merely to give 
the cubs practise. Now and then one of the cow 
victims was mutilated but left alive to die of poison¬ 
ing from the bites of the wolf teeth. 

The cubs learned fast and grew rapidly in size 
and strength and fierceness — those of them that sur¬ 
vived the first month north of the divide. Within a 
week after they reached the Seven Up range, one 
had been drowned in a cloudburst torrent that swept 
down a Yamparo canon. Another’s head was 
crushed by the chance kick of a dying calf. The 
third ventured too near a mother grizzly. 

The three luckier and more wily cubs had already 
learned much of what their mother and grand¬ 
mother had to teach them. But as yet they knew 
little about their most deadly enemy — man. They 
had been kept well back among the hills, on the 
fringe of the in-drifting cattle. 

Already, however, Joe Gale had discovered the 
first evidences of the slaughter. At his report old 
Kiowa sent him back to make sure that the killings 



Wolf Play 


39 


had not been made by a chance-passing mountain 
lion. 

After scouring the most broken part of the hills 
for nearly a week, Joe at last caught a distant 
glimpse of the killers slinking off along a ridge. The 
three cubs were now grown fleet and strong. They 
got away with their mother into a jumble of crags 
where no horse could follow. But the age-crippled 
Gotch Ear could not outrun Joe’s broncho. The 
mare brought her within fair rifle range, and his 
second shot dropped the gaunt cattle-killer when she 
was less than three bounds away from safety. 

Kiowa Orton viewed the huge, scraggy white body 
of the old she-wolf with scant satisfaction. 

“Heap of good getting her this late in the day. 
She was all wore out, ready to drop to pieces. Look 
at her teeth. Couldn’t hurt a cottontail.” 

Joe grinned at Mary and pulled open the jaws 
that were known to have destroyed more than twenty 
thousand dollars’ worth of livestock. The once 
frightful fangs were now blunt and broken. 

“Better late than never, Aunt Ki,” he answered 
the tart critic. “ But it sure has been a long trail. 
’Member that day, Mary, there at her old hole, when 
we came near nailing her ? ” 

Parlen bent to finger the huge gotch-eared white 
head. 

“Havvers on the reward, Joe. Don’t forget we 
agreed to whack up, way back then, whichever got 
her.” 

“Reward?” said Mary. 



40 


Branded 


“ Yes, that hundred posted by the Association for 
her scalp hasn’t ever been called off.” 

Joe’s grin broadened. 

“ Trust Pari not to forget a bet like that — nor 
a fossilized agreement to whack up, when he’s the 
whackee! Oh, well, Old Fifty-Percent, if that re¬ 
ward still stands, you’ll get your split. Nobody’s 
going to call me a liar.” 

“No, you’re just a plain loose-fingered fool, like 
your pa before you,” said Kiowa. “And the Asso¬ 
ciation is a pack of fools if they pay for this used- 
up has-been bunch of skin and bone. You ain’t on 
the square, Joe Gale, if you claim a cent of that re¬ 
ward.” 

“Why, Aunt Ki, he’s killed her,” protested Par- 
len. “Nobody can deny it’s old Gotch. If the re¬ 
ward offer hasn’t ever been withdrawn, he and I are 
entitled to our money. A bargain’s a bargain. Any 
court would give us a judgment for it if we brought 
suit.” 

Taylor Brent himself could not have stated the 
legality of the claim any more clearly. For a mo¬ 
ment Kiowa’s hard gaze wavered towards Joe. He 
looked exactly like his father at the same age. Her 
glance darted back to Parlen. After all, this stand 
of the older cousin only went to prove that he was 
on the make. She must think of her run-down brand 
and of Mary’s future. 

Joe was frowning at his cousin. 

“Judgment — bah!” he scoffed. “Aunt Ki says 
it’s wrong. She’s right. I just didn’t stop to think, 



Wolf Play 


41 


Aunt Ki. Old Gotch has been helping train the 
pups, but she can’t have been worth a thirty-cent re¬ 
ward for the last year or more.” 

“No,” differed the contrary old woman. “ Parlen 
is the one who’s right. He’s got right smart hoss- 
sense. Your uncle himself laid the last butcherings 
in part on Gotch. She’s helped train the pups. Be¬ 
sides her record of over twenty thousand dollars of 
livestock killed, her craft was still counting more’n 
most lobos’ teeth.” 

“Well, if you put it that way, Aunt Ki. Anyhow, 
I don’t want Pari to cry over missing his fifty 
bucks.” 

Kiowa packed several considerations into a single 
proposition. 

“ Tell you what. I’ll make it a hundred cash my¬ 
self— and no split — to the first one you boys 
brings me the scalp of Gotch’s slit-ear daughter, 
and ten for each pup of hers; or seventy-five for 
proof you’ve run her and the pups back onto the 
Circle B. You’ll have to spell each other, a week 
on and a week off. Toss up who’ll get first go.” 

“Joe’s been out. I’m entitled to the first week,” 
argued Parlen. 

“Take it,” said Joe. 

He helped his cousin pack and gave him expert 
advice. Parlen smiled with outward contempt, while 
inwardly he noted down every slightest detail. As a 
result, he came in at the end of the week with one 
of the wolf cubs. He promptly collected his ten 
dollars. 



42 


Branded 


Joe went out twice and brought back nothing. 

On Parlen’s third week’s hunt he had the rare luck 
to blunder upon the she-wolf and her two remaining 
cubs in the act of killing a calf. He was almost as 
good a shot as Joe. Had there been no reward, he 
would have gathered in all the family. But the 
thought of that hundred dollars made him too eager. 
His first bullet missed the she-wolf by inches. The 
second struck behind her vanishing tail. The cubs 
were not such instantaneous jumpers as their 
mother. He brought both back with him. 

Generous Joe thumped him on the shoulder—and 
went out to continue a course of study he had been 
following. He knew that his cousin had stumbled 
into a streak of luck. From, now on the lone she- 
wolf would be about as easy to sight as a fly on the 
moon. 

But in the scorching days of July his patient 
tracking and studying began to promise results. He 
found where the she-wolf had taken to a regular run. 
Meantime he sent to Denver for traps and a Maxim 
silencer. He also wrote for government information 
on the best ways of trapping wolves. 

He followed directions with utmost care. Against 
his wits were matched the crafty brain and super¬ 
normal wariness of Gotch Ear’s daughter. Unlike 
Parlen, with his breaks of sheer luck, Joe won by 
outright persistency and head-work. 

On the third day of his first week in August he 
started at dawn along the she-wolf’s run. His first 
two traps had been missed. He topped the next rise. 



Wolf Play 


43 


Close ahead a gray whirl of fury was fighting the 
snake-thing that had locked its frightful jaws on one 
of her forefeet. 

Without waiting for a pause in the frantic flurry, 
Joe fired. Somehow he did not like to see the steel 
jaws torture even such a murderous she-devil as this 
lobo. The struggling captive dropped like a shot 
rabbit and lay still. 

Hard as Joe spurred his broncho, the terrified 
mare would not go within a hundred feet of the 
downed wolf. He tossed his reins over her head and 
ran forward to look at his prize. 

He had the right to feel proud of himself. Not 
only had he set his trap skilfully enough to outwit 
the craftiest of all Gotch Ear’s progeny — he had 
made his trap-clog just the right weight and shape 
to keep her tugging it along, instead of at once 
gnawing off the imprisoned foot. She had dragged 
it nearly half a mile towards the old lair of Gotch 
Ear, where she had been born. 

As he drew near he noted her great size. Though 
only four and a half years old, she was already as 
huge as had been Gotch Ear when full grown. Given 
another year or two, the daughter would have be¬ 
come still bigger than her mother. 

Sight of her upturned slit left ear carried his 
thoughts back to the day, four springs past, when 
he crawled into the den of Gotch Ear. It seemed 
almost unbelievable that this great lobo she-devil 
had been the M-yi-ing fuzzy pup he had laughingly 
tossed to Mary. 



44 


Branded 


Indignant little Mary — how mad she had been 
over the slitting of the pup’s ear! He had given it 
to her with the Seven Up mark as a joke, and be¬ 
cause of her tender-heartedness, she had turned loose 
the little devil. 

He laid down his rifle and stepped close to spring 
open the trap. He saw where his bullet had struck 
high near the bristles on the back of the she-wolf’s 
neck. She lay with her head twisted, as if one of the 
neck vertebrae had been broken. He jerked her 
crushed forepaw from between the opened steel j aws. 

As if his touch had carried a revivifying electric 
shock, the she-wolf flared out of her utter laxness into 
ferocious life. With a terrific snarl, she whirled to 
her feet and leaped at Joe’s throat. His up-jerking 
hands struck and grasped hold just behind her jaws. 
They stopped those slashing fangs a scant inch short 
of his jugular vein. 

He reeled backwards, overbalanced by the unex¬ 
pected shock of her great weight. But in falling he 
managed to wrench the frightfully snarling beast 
around under him. They came down with stunning 
violence. Her head struck upon a stone. 

Joe felt his savage assailant suddenly go limp in 
his clutch. Her snarls chopped off in a short 
grunt. He let go his hold and jumped to snatch up 
his rifle. But as he sighted down the barrel the 
slit ear of the motionless killer again caught his eye. 
The reminder stiffened his crooking finger and 
brought a smile to his set lips. He jerked a hogging¬ 
string from his belt. 



Wolf Play 


45 - 


A few swift hitches muzzled fast the terrible jaws* 
that had slaughtered so many thousands of dollars 5 
worth of livestock. This time the she-wolf did not 
stir. She lay as if her skull had been crushed by 
the blow on the stone. Joe shook his head, but took 
no chances. He tied her bony legs with a second 
hogging-string. 

Fortunately his savage prize did not again revive 
until he had compelled his mare to let him lash the 
seemingly dead killer on behind his saddle. Though 
he believed the beast was this time really dead, he 
again took no chances. He hitched his rope on her 
as if packing fast a bag of gold. 

Half a mile or so from the starting point the she- 
wolf came to life for the second time. But hard as 
she sought to struggle free, she could do no more 
than writhe her iron muscles. The realization that 
the frightful beast on her back was alive put the 
mare into a panicky bucking run. By the time Joe 
got her again under control the she-wolf had been 
jolted back into unconsciousness. 

When they came loping to the ranch the huge 
head and thick neck of the she-wolf hung utterly 
limp behind Joe’s left leg. Her greenish-yellow eyes 
were glazed like dull glass, and the shaggy fur was 
dripping with red. 



CHAPTER IV 


MILK AND GALL 



LD KIOWA had gone with Rocker to mow hay 


on her leased school-land meadows. But as 


Joe neared the ancient log house his whoops brought 
Mary and Parlen running from the kitchen. He 
sprang off and hastened to unlash his pack. 

Parlen was first to find words: 

“The slit-eared she-devil! Of all lucky fools, 
you’re the fool luckiest! Just like you to stumble 
across her — Yes, and still more like you to pack 
her in so you can show off to Mary. All you need 
have done was take her slit-ear scalp.” 

“Think so?” Joe grinned and dumped the limp 
wolf on the ground. “What d’you say, Mary. 
Here’s your Seven Up lobo pup. I’m not killing 
anybody’s livestock without the owner’s orders.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Mary. “You mean she’s not — 
The way you’ve tied her all up. But she looks dead.” 

“ Mebbeso. She must be bled white. Only I 
wouldn’t put my hand in her mouth — not by a little 
bit. I killed her dead twice, and she came back for 
another killing. Maybe she’s half cat.” 

Mary’s hands clasped together. Her blue eyes 
widened. 

“I — I did not think it of you, Joe. Look at 
her neck and head — and that mangled paw. To 


Milk and Gall 


47 


go and hurt her as bad as that, and then not put 
the poor thing out of her misery ! 55 

“The joke’s on me,” said Joe. “Thought you’d 
like to see how your petty-babe pup had grown. My 
mistake. Stand clear.” 

He drew his pistol. Mary flung herself down on 
her knees to bend over the she-wolf. 

“No, you sha’n’t! See her eyelid flutter. She’s 
still alive. Look how weak and sick she is — can’t 
even move her head. Help me lift her, Parlen. I’m 
going to put her in the old kennel.” 

Joe could not hold in his amazement. 

“ Good Lord, Mary, you’re not going to keep her 
alive, are you?” 

“ Yes, I am, if she doesn’t die from your torturing 
her. It’ll serve you right. Gran’ma’s offer of the 
hundred was for her scalp, not for her alive.” 

“Money be hanged! You’ve got the right to do 
what you want with the she-devil. She’s yours, 
Mary, far as I’m concerned. Maybe Aunt Ki’ll think 
different. I’m betting she’ll figure on what’ll happen 
if your wolf gets loose again.” 

Parlen timed his intervention with adroit shrewd¬ 
ness. 

“You needn’t sneer, Joe. Mary has a right to 
keep her wolf alive if she wants to. That old dog 
chain and collar would hold a yearling steer, Mary. 
Aunt Ki will be satisfied if she sees the poor hurt 
thing fastened up safe. She couldn’t ask for a 
better watch-dog.” 

As Parlen spoke he bent to help Mary lift her 



48 


Branded 


property. The she-wolf was so near death from 
loss of blood that she could not even writhe in the 
hands of the hated men beings. Her utmost effort 
at a growl made no more than a sharp rasping in 
her throat. Joe threw up his hands and led his tired 
mare to the horse corral. 

When he came back, the she-wolf’s legs and muzzle 
had been untied and Mary was pouring hot milk down 
the red lane of the cattle-killer’s gullet. Parlen came 
from the house with bandages and a pan of warm 
water. The sight of him in the role of assistant 
nurse proved too much for Joe’s sense of humor. He 
made the disastrous mistake of chuckling out loud. 

He sobered quickly enough when he saw Mary’s 
up-jerked face. She withered him with a flash of 
righteous wrath. 

“ Laugh! — torture the poor beast, then laugh! 
I’ve always known you were cruel, ever since you 
cut its little ear! ” 

“Aw, now, Mary. It was Pari I was laughing at. 
Only you’d better put the collar on your petty- 
babe. My bullet must have creased her. But when 
I took the trap off her foot she woke up mwy pronto. 
Came within an ace of slashing my throat.” 

Parlen did his best to copy Mary’s hot indigna¬ 
tion. 

“So that’s why you tried to beat out the poor 
beast’s brains ? ” 

“ But you stopped halfway, so you could torment 
her,” added Mary. 

It was Joe’s turn to flare. 



Milk and Gall 


49 


“Guess I haven’t any brains myself — when it 
comes to lobos and girls.” 

Spurs jingling, head high, he stamped into the 
house and slammed the door. Mary’s eyes clouded 
with doubt. 

“ Maybe he didn’t really mean to be cruel. If he 
only wanted to bring her to me alive-” 

Parlen looked away and spoke hesitatingly: 

“I hope so. Only — well, I hate to say it, but 
if you ask Limpy or Swede, or any other of Uncle 
Lor’s men, they’ll tell you Joe always grins when 
he brands an animal.” 

This was a half-truth worse than an outright lie. 
(Whenever Joe used a branding-iron he grimaced. 
He hated to hurt helpless creatures. But Mary had 
once seen that grimace, and now her warped judg¬ 
ment caused her to accept Parlen’s interpretation of 
it. Her head drooped. She took the basin of water 
and began to bathe the wounds of the she-wolf. 

The hot milk had brought back a faint pulse of 
life through the beast’s almost drained veins. She 
stirred slightly. The rasp in her throat became a 
hoarse rumbling attempt at a growl. Yet she was 
still too weak to draw in her lolling red tongue, or 
even to bare her terrible white teeth. She could not 
slash the hand that so gently bathed her head and 
neck and mashed paw and dressed the wounds with 
old-fashioned soothing salve. 

But Parlen saw the red glare behind the still half- 
glazed surface of the she-wolf’s slant eyes. He put 
the matter with more tact than had Joe. 




50 


Branded 


“It’s too bad, but sick as is the poor beast, if 
Aunt Ki comes and finds her loose, she’ll drill her 
first, and ask questions afterwards. The collar will 
go on close behind her ears without rubbing the 
neck wound. What d’you say? Hadn’t we better 
make safe before Aunt Ki gets back?” 

He carefully examined the collar, which had last 
been used on a pet bear cub. The well-greased 
leather was still strong and pliant. 

“ Feel how soft it is,” he said. 

Mary felt and reluctantly gave way. 

“ Go ahead, but be careful. Don’t buckle it too 
tight.” 

“I’ll not,” replied Parlen. He drew the collar 
strap close. “ It’s only her ruff makes it look tight. 
May as well not put it on at all if it’s so loose it will 
slip over her ears — or back against the neck 
wound.” 

The last argument overcame Mary’s objections to 
the snugness of the collar. She went in to fetch 
more hot milk. Parlen jerked up the collar strap 
still another hole. The rumble in the she-wolf’s 
throat rose to a growl. She made a feeble attempt 
to snap at the man’s hand. He jumped up and 
kicked her hard in the flank. 

When Mary came back he was making sure the 
eyebolt that held the chain to the kennel could not 
be pulled out. He stirred the old litter inside the 
kennel with his boot toe. 

“ It’s nice and soft,” he said. “ Shall we lift her 
in?” 



Milk and Gall 


51 


“ That’s thoughtful of you, Pari. But she might 
mistake it for a trap. Airway, I can take better 
care of her out here.” 

“You can, and of yourself, too. A wolf this full 
grown can’t be tamed. Soon as she gets strong 
enough to bite, she’ll slash anyone who comes near.” 

“I’m not so sure,” said Mary. “I’m just going 
to try and see. If I’m good to her now, maybe she’ll 
remember how I snuggled her and let her go when 
she was a pup. If tigers can be tamed, I don’t see 
why a wolf can’t.” 

Parlen had his doubts. But he did believe that if 
there was any possibility of taming a lobo, Mary was 
the one who' could do it. What he could not see was 
his permitting this particular she-wolf to become the 
dog of the girl he intended to marry. Pie had 
already won himself the undying hatred of the 
vicious 1 she-devil. 

He let drop a remark that rapped his cousin and 
at the same time prepared for a riddance of the in¬ 
jured beast. 

“ Here’s wishing you success. But of course, after 
the way Joe has mistreated her, she may not live.” 

“Yes, she will,” predicted Mary. “She’d be dead 
by now if she was going to die. I can see she’s 
stronger already.” 

This could not be denied. Yet the butcher of 
many scores of cattle had shaved death herself by a 
hair’s-breath. She was still too weak to lift her 
gaunt gray head when, close upon nightfall, Kiowa 
returned with Rocker from the hay meadows. Mary 



52 


Branded 


was giving the invalid still more hot milk. Her 
grandmother peered at the huge outstretched, band¬ 
aged beast. 

“Who’s dog you — Huh! a lobo— that slit-eared 
she-devil! Alive! And being babied! Stand clear, 
girl. I’ll settle her hash.” 

Mary only bent closer over her helpless patient. 

“No, no, Gran’ma, please. She’s mine. I’m going 
to tame her.” 

“Tame the devil? A grown lobo — the get of 
old Gotch Ear! ” 

“ She’s not a devil. ‘ She’s only an animal. Any¬ 
way, she’s mine, and Joe abused her. He was cruel. 
He-” 

“ Cruel to a lobo! ” Kiowa choked back a sar¬ 
donic chuckle. Here was a point to play on. “ So 
he was mean to the critter. Abused her, did he ? ” 

“Yes. I wouldn’t have minded if he had shot her 
dead at once. But he had to go and bring her home 
alive, just to torment — or maybe not that — but, 
anyway, to tease her.” 

“He did? That’s one worse than his pa being 
ornery to> dumb brutes. Well, if you keep your new 
pet chained, I’ll agree not to kill her right off. All 
the same, it makes me sore, Joe’s bringing in the 
gray devil alive.” 

Parlen thought he saw a chance to curry favor 
and at the same time give his cousin a knock. 

“You don’t have to pay him that hundred, Aunt 
Ki. Your offer to us was for her scalp. That 
meant for killing her.” 




Milk and Gall 


53 


44 But, Gran’ma,” hesitated Mary, her sense of 
justice struggling! against her indignation against the 
offender, 44 you didn’t say 4 killed,’ and he has brought 
in her scalp along with the rest of her.” 

44 Yes, just to show off to you and be ornery to 
the poor beast,” said Parlen. 

Old Kiowa chimed in, well pleased to advance their 
common purpose. 

44 From what you say, Mary, he dragged the 
cripple in to tease you. That lets me out on the re¬ 
ward— ’less he finishes busting her head when he 
finds he’s got to hand over her scalp ’fore he gets 
his hundred. Come on in now T . I could eat a steer 
— horns, hoofs and hide.” 

Joe had fallen asleep in Kiowa’s old rocking chair 
when he first entered the kitchen. His keenness to 
get the she-wolf had kept him from taking more than 
a few brief naps during his two nights out in the 
hills. Roused by a touch of his cousin’s boot toe, 
he came to the supper table aglow with his usual 
friendly good-humor. He was generously willing to 
forget Mary’s unfair crossness. 

Mary, still hurt and indignant, mistook this for 
callous indifference to what he had done. Dashed 
by her cold look, but still proud of his success, he 
started to tell Kiowa* how he had trapped and shot 
and out-fought the cattle-killer. The old woman cut 
in with venom on her tongue. 

44 That’ll do, young man. It’s bad ’nough, way 
you mishandled the critter, ’thout you having to 
brag of it. What’s more, I won’t pay you a cent of 



54 


Branded 


that hundred. You didn’t fetch me her scalp. You 
packed in the miser’ble suffering critter alive — to 
tease Mary.” 

The bitter injustice of this brought a grimace of 
distress to Joe’s face. He looked to Mary for a de¬ 
fender, and saw her eyes widen with reproach. He 
did not realize that she had mistaken his grimace 
for a grin of cruel mirth. Aunt Ki’s tobasco, like 
his uncle’s stony harshness, went with the day’s work. 
Easy enough to throw it over his shoulder. Far 
different, though, for Mary to be so unfair to a 
fellow. 

He shoved back from the table and slammed out 
into the night. 

“ The gall of him! ” cried Kiowa, her hawk eyes 
on Mary’s clouded face. “ Him grinning that way 
over what he’s done, then getting mad ’cause we 
didn’t pat him on the back for it. I told you he’s 
just like his ornery father— What’s that?” 

Out in the darkness the she-wolf, despite her great 
weakness, had been put on the alert by Joe’s noisy 
out-rush. She caught his scent, the scent of the 
enemy who had trapped and shot and out-fought her. 
In a flurry of rage, she sought to bound up. But 
she lacked strength to more than twist her legs and 
body. The pain of her crushed foot shrilled her 
snarls into a yelp of agony. This was what had 
broken off Kiowa’s scathing denunciation. 

“ He’s abusing the helpless beast again,” said Par- 
len. “ I’ll make him quit.” 

He hurried out. Mary burst into tears. 



Milk and Gall 


55 


Joe had stalked away to the bunk-house, too hurt 
by Mary’s unfairness to heed the out-cry of the she- 
wolf. His cousin located the prostrate lobo by the 
flare of a match, and won another yelp from her with 
a kick in the neck. Back near the door he snapped 
a sharp but low-spoken order for Joe to clear out 
and stay away. He knew that his cousin was too 
far off to hear him. After a pause, he went back 
into the kitchen. 

“ Don’t cry, Mary,” he said. “ He won’t hurt 
her any more — at least not tonight.” 

The girl beamed at him through her tears. 

“Oh, thank you, Pari. You — you’re the one 
who’s really good-hearted.” 

Parlen looked as modest as he could. 

“ I don’t pretend to be soft, Mary. I’d have killed 
your lobo. I wouldn’t stop a minute over killing 
anything that hurt you or Aunt Ki — or myself. 
We’ve got the right to protect ourselves and our 
interests. You remember the time I snuffed out those 
other pups of old Gotch Ear? Joe had to go and 
keep this one, just to torment it — same as he’s done 
and is doing now.” 

A fresh flare of indignation dried up Mary’s tears. 
Her grandmother ordered Parlen to the bunk-house 
and at once went to bed herself. Better to leave the 
girl to brood over the matter. It would sink in 
deeper than if she were allowed to talk off her hurt 
anger. 

In the morning, having slept off his own hurt feel¬ 
ings, Joe tried to make up. The she-wolf was al- 



56 


Branded 


ready able to lift her massive head a little. Joe 
offered to hold her while Mary looked to the wounds. 
The girl coldly refused his aid. Parlen smiled and 
stepped in, only to jump back at the ferocious snarl 
and snap of the wolf. 

Before Joe could interfere, the girl bent down to 
feed her savage pet. But she was not foolishly over¬ 
confident. She kept the hand with which she held 
the pan of warm milk just beyond reach of those 
gleaming white fangs. The she-wolf continued to 
bristle and growl. Yet the scent of the girl was 
already associated in her fierce brain with the hands 
that had so gently soothed her burning wounds and 
eased her fever-thirst with the hot white fluid. 

The yellow-haired human was again offering her 
the white drink. In her cubhood she had been taught 
by Gotch Ear never to touch meat that bore the 
slightest taint of man scent, nor to so much as go 
near any carcass, not even one of her own kills. Two 
or three times her mother had shown her from a dis¬ 
tance the bodies of poisoned coyotes lying around a 
recently killed calf. In the years that followed, her 
acquired suspiciousness had become as deep-rooted 
as the innate wiliness of her nature. 

But this soft-voiced human had helped rather than 
hurt her. What she now offered was not meat, but 
more of the drink that recalled a memory-taste 
vaguely linked with a sensation of warmth and pro¬ 
tection. Even more keenly than a dog, a wolf re¬ 
members through its nose. Perhaps less dimly than 
the taste of her mother’s milk, the she-wolf recalled 




Milk and Gall 


57 


the scent of the human who once had caught her in 
mid-air to cuddle her close in a warm softness and 
croon away her terror. 

The scent of this human was the same; as, also, 
was the soft, crooning voice. The wolf did not re¬ 
member as men remember, with clear consciousness 
and reason. But she was capable of feeling with 
fierce intensity. The girl’s scent increasingly stirred 
in her savage brain pleasurable thrills that added 
strength to her recent favorable impressions of the 
owner of the scent. 

Torn between distrust and the pull of Mary’s 
friendliness, the gray beast lay in an agony of doubt. 
The irritation of indecision worked her into a fury. 
Her growls heightened to a weak yet frightful snarl. 
She sought to pull herself up on her forefeet. The 
effort was too great. She sank down again prone 
on the ground and lay silent, exhausted. 

Mary fearlessly lifted the great gaunt head and 
held the pan of milk under the down-lolling tongue. 
The fever of the beast’s blood-loss and wounds had 
left her more than ever famished with thirst. Un¬ 
able to resist the taste of the fluid, she began to lap 
it up. 

The girl brought panful after panful, until the 
she-wolf could drink no more. The neck and head 
bandages had been fastened on too securely for the 
almost powerless beast to scratch them off. But she 
had managed to rip away the dressings on her 
crushed paw. Mary w r ashed and dressed it again 
and bound on splints to hold the broken bones. The 




58 


Branded 


reviving beast growled and snarled and sought to 
snap the ministering hands. Mary kept to her 
soothing talk and persisted with her doctoring. 

“ She’ll chew that off, soon’s she gets strong 
enough,” predicted Joe. “You oughtn’t to waste 
your time on her. If you’d seen how she hamstrung 
some of the cows and left ’em to starve-” 

“ She was only a wild wolf, not a man who ought 
to know better than torture helpless things! ” flared 
Mary. 

She turned her back on Joe in a way that sent 
him hurrying off to seek in hard work a numbing 
of his fresh hurt. 




CHAPTER V 


IN BAD 

T HE two weeks that followed brought no relent- 
ment in Mary’s stand' against Joe. His well- 
meant prediction that the captive would again tear 
off the foot dressings served only to increase the 
girl’s indignation against him when it came true. 

Time after time she renewed the dressing and 
splints and bandages, and time after time the she- 
wolf ripped all off. The licking of her tongue may 
have healed the torn skin and tendons more rapidly 
than any salve would have done. But without the 
support of splints, the broken bones kept moving 
about. They failed to knit together. Though the 
paw healed, the toes splayed wide and loose, like 
the foot of a half-grown inbred Saint Bernard dog. 

For the first few days, however, Mary had her 
way over the neck and head bandages. Her savage 
pet still lacked strength to scratch them off. But 
the she-wolf possessed a vitality even greater than 
the usual extraordinary toughness and tenacity of 
her breed. She was in her prime and she was the 
daughter of Gotch Ear. On the third day her raven¬ 
ous hunger, coupled with Mary’s persuasiveness, had 
brought her to the point of eating cooked meat, 
along with the milk. After that her strength came 
back with amazing rapidity. 

59 


60 


Branded 


The first time the beast staggered to her feet and 
snarled at Kiowa, Mary’s quick jump between alone 
stopped the out-thrusting of the ancient Colts. 

44 Please, Gran’ma,” the girl begged. 44 You 
promised. It’s only that she’s afraid you’ll hurt 
her. Look.” 

Without a trace of fear, the girl stepped around 
and put her hand on the bristling neck of the beast. 

44 Lord! ” gasped Kiowa. 44 Jump — pronto! ” 

Mary smiled and tickled behind the she-wolf’s slit 
ear. The snarling beast did not whirl and slash the 
venturesome hand. She did not seem to be aware of 
it. Her glaring eyes remained fixed on Kiowa. But 
gradually her snarls died down into a low rumbling 
growl. 

44 You see,” said Mary. 44 She’s not afraid of me.” 

Kiowa slowly shoved her revolver back into its 
worn holster. 

44 Well, I’ll be — switched! If you ain’t gone and 
gentled the big she-devil.” 

44 Yes, but I told you, Gran’ma, she’s not a devil. 
And she’s not a wild wolf now, either. She’s my 
wolf-dog. Please make friends with her.” 

44 Like fun I will! I ain’t disremembering you 
got me to come in paw reach of your bear-cub. That 
claw scratch on my leg ain’t never healed right 
yet. As for this, splay-foot devil, I’ll drill her scalp 
before ever I put a hand on it. No use warning 
you to shy clear of her. I know that.” 

44 Why, Gran’ma, she’s perfectly safe.” 

44 Safe till she takes a notion to slash you or some- 



In Bad 


61 


one else. If she does I’ll make her safe for keeps.” 

Parlen did not hear this. That evening, after 
dark, he came in with a gash through the outer side 
of his right boot and instep. He accused Rocker of 
having left one of the pitchforks under a bunch of 
hay in the barn. The half-witted wrangler only 
gaped. Mary dressed the gashed foot, almost as con¬ 
cernedly as she had bandaged the she-wolf’s paw. 

At dawn Joe, first up as usual, noticed an iron- 
wood club lying beside the dog kennel. The she-wolf 
had gnawed it half into splinters. Dark red spots 
made a trail from near the kennel to the kitchen 
door. None could be seen on the path to the barn. 
Joe grinned at the writhing lips of the she-wolf. He 
had no need to ask his cousin if the “pitchfork 
prong” had not been one of those long white fangs. 

Unluckily for him, Mary just then came around 
the corner of the h^use with the she-wolf’s breakfast. 
She saw his grin. They were alone. The breach 
between them was not yet too wide for her to have 
listened to explanations. But Joe’s hasty nature 
could not withstand the fresh wound to his pride 
made by her indignant look. He turned away with¬ 
out a word. Mary saw the splintered club, and, what 
was worse, she saw fresh bruises on the head and 
flank of the chained wolf. 

After this her manner towards Joe became more 
and more constrained. Still harder for him to bear 
was the closeness with which she kept watch when¬ 
ever he might have had a chance to harm her pet. 
As a result, he took particular pains to avoid going 



62 


Branded 


near the chained lobo. Old Kiowa chuckled to her¬ 
self and casually remarked to Mary that the way 
Joe was fighting shy of “Splay Foot,” he must be 
feeling guilty over something he had done to the 
gray devil — or planned to do. 

Parlen did not chuckle, either openly or to him¬ 
self. Though he was merely cool and quiet where 
his uncle was stony cold, he possessed all his uncle’s 
inexorable vindictiveness. The she-wolf had bitten 
him. He made no allowance for the fact that she 
had slashed his foot while he was attempting to beat 
her to death. On the contrary, his rancor against 
her was all the more poisonous because she had 
shown enough strength and courage to scare him off. 
Thinking her stunned by his first blows, he had 
stepped around to kick her. Before his boot could 
thud into her flank she had snapped his foot. The 
sudden ferocity of her counter-attack had so startled 
him that he had dropped his club and ran. 

Mary’s kindliness to the beast rasped his meanly 
jealous nature. He had been balked in his first at¬ 
tempt to get rid' of the hated creature. His chances 
for a second attempt were shut off by the girl’s vigi¬ 
lance against Joe. To see the she-wolf so rapidly 
recovering from her injuries filled him with cold 
fury. He dared not harm the beast unless he could 
do it in a way that would put the blame on his cousin. 
But the young fool persisted in keeping away from 
the kennel. 

The longed-for opportunity came at last, late in 
August. An unfavorable season had resulted in a 



In Bad 


63 


short hay crop. Kiowa thought to forestall the 
future by preparing her banker for a renewal of the 
note she had given him in the spring. All the money 
she would get in from the sale of beef steers in the 
fall round-up might be needed to carry the rest of 
her stock over the winter. 

As the ranch was short of food and other supplies, 
she insisted upon Mary driving to town with her in 
the chuck wagon. Ordinarily the girl would have 
been glad of the change. Now, however, she had her 
pet to consider. Old Kiowa laughed derisively at 
the suggestion that they take the wolf chained in 
the wagon. 

“Nobody ever called me a fool — and proved it,’* 
she said. “ I won’t have folks say I’ve begun to dod¬ 
der from old age. You can take Splay Foot’s scalp, 
if you like. The rest of her stays here.” 

Mary sought out a chance to speak alone with 
Parlen while Joo was hitching up the wagon team. 

“Pari, you’ll — you’ll keep an eye on my wolf 
for me, won’t you? I want her fed and — watched.” 

“ Sure,” he agreed. “ You know you can trust me, 
Mary. You know I’ll do anything to get you — I 
mean, get you to like me. Of course I can’t keep 
watch night and day. But I’ll do my best. I don’t 
think he’ll dare do anything if he sees I’ve taken your 
place looking out for her.” 

The girl gave him a rueful glance. 

“Oh, Pari, if only I could like you all you de¬ 
serve ! ” 

Parlen blinked, uncertain just how to take this. 



64 


Branded 


It was hard for him to believe that even she could 
be absolutely sincere. The momentary delay lost him 
his golden opportunity. Frightened by her im¬ 
pulsive outburst, Mary ran to take the reins of the 
restless team. The chuck-wagon rattled off in a 
cloud of dust. 

By horseback, using cut-offs, the trip to town and 
return could be made in a day and a half. A wagon, 
going around by road, took longer, and Kiowa’s 
parting word had been that she would not start back 
from town until the morning of the third day. Par- 
len set about his plans with even more than his usual 
deliberation. 

As his first move he invited Joe to witness the 
feeding of “ Splay Foot.” Joe grinned and count¬ 
ered by inviting Rocker to the party. Great was his 
surprise when for the first time in two weeks he 
saw the beast that he had brought in so desperately 
wounded and weak. She was running back and forth 
around the three-quarter circle to which the taut 
chain held her. The broken forepaw splayed out 
every time she put her weight upon it, yet it seemed 
neither to pain nor to cripple her. 

As the three men rounded the corner of the kitchen 
she stopped short at the far end of her run and 
crouched low. Deceived by her seeming fear, they 
came on rather carelessly. They crossed the circu¬ 
lar path worn by her days of swinging around at 
the end of the long chain. 

With a yell of fury, the captive rushed at them, 
straight across the circle. Parlen dropped his pan 



In Bad 


m 


of meat and jumped backwards. Joe was a trifle 
delayed. He had to drag after him the slow-witted 
Rocker. The jaws of the enraged she-wolf were gap¬ 
ing to slash the horse-wrangler’s leg when the chain 
jerked taut. The shock was so violent that the 
snarling beast hurled heels over head, knocking 
Rocker' onto his face. 

The wonder was that neither the chain nor the 
wolf’s neck broke. She thudded hard upon the sun¬ 
baked ground. Yet almost quicker than eye could 
follow, she swirled her body back around, so that she 
could confront the hated humans. She reared up at 
the end of the chain, slavering and yelling with fran¬ 
tic rage. 

Joe knocked up Parlen’s out-thrusting pistol. 

“No, you don’t. She belongs to Mary,” he 
shouted above the mad clamor of the wolf. “ Get up, 
Rocker. She didn’t even nip you.” 

Parlen backed around the corner of the house, 
still holding his pistol ready. The she-wolf had given 
him one of the worst scares of his life. Joe helped 
up the frightened horse-wrangler, kicked Splay 
Foot’s meat inside her circle, and set off for the hay 
meadows with Rocker. 

After this he stayed away from the chained beast. 
But, without seeming to do so, he kept watch on his 
cousin’s rather wooden face. Morning of the third 
day he noticed a slight change in Parlen’s cool, cal¬ 
culating eyes. 

Old Kiowa’s last orders had been for them to keep 
on hauling hay to the feed sheds. There were two 



66 


Branded 


haystacks. While Joe and Parlen drove in with 
highpeaked loads. Rocker raked up the windrows of 
cured hay. 

When towards noon, the young men came in with 
their second loads, Joe noticed that his cousin so 
mishandled his pitchfork that several trusses of hay 
slipped off the stack he was building. As Joe emp¬ 
tied his own rack Parlen called to him in a careless 
tone : 

44 Kinked my arm, but trot along. I’ll overhaul 
you before you reach the meadows.” 

44 1 may’s well help you clean up, Pari.” 

44 No, go on.” 

Joe whooped at his broncho team and jolted off 
at a brisk trot. But around the turn of the first hill, 
nearly a mile away, he hitched the team to a cedar 
and climbed the slope. Peering over the crest ledges, 
he saw Parlen come from the ranch kitchen and go 
around the corner of the house. Black smoke was 
pouring from the chimney. 

To keep under cover Joe had to circle around the 
hill and follow the windings of the creek gulley that 
ran past the corrals. Though hurried enough to 
keep in a jog all the way, he did not wish to show 
himself until sure of what his cousin was doing. He 
worked down the creek to the junction of the ranch 
spring-rill and up through the willow thickets of the 
rill gulley. 

As he paused behind the spring house he again saw 
his cousin come from the kitchen. In one hand Par¬ 
len carried an iron rod that ended in a white-glow- 



In Bad 


67 


ing twist of metal. He went around the corner 
towards the dog kennel. 

Joe sprinted for the kitchen. The wide ells of 
the old ranch building shut off all view of the road to 
town, and the muffled snarls that came from around 
the corner of the kitchen drowned all other sounds. 
Past as Joe ran, he was a long second too late. 
Three strides short of the house corner his ears rang 
with the jell of the tortured wolf. 

He w r hirled around the corner and sprang to hurl 
his cousin away from the writhing hog-tied victim. 
Taken by surprise, Parlen reeled and tottered. But 
he did not quite topple over, and he clung fast to the 
long-handled branding-iron. Sight of the fiery 
brand on the shoulder of the she-wolf and the rank 
smell of burnt hair and skin had maddened him out 
of his usual cautious restraint. As he recovered his 
balance he turned upon Joe and lunged with the red- 
hot brand-head. 

Joe dodged, leaped in, and grasped the rod handle. 
But hard as he wrenched, Parlen clung fast to the 
iron. He was heavier and stronger than Joe, and 
for once he was in a fighting temper. 

They scuffled and wrestled with all their skill and 
strength, each striving to wrest the branding-iron 
from the other. Neither dared let go to strike with 
his fist, for fear the other would get the iron. A 
blow with its hot end would have burned, perhaps 
maimed. 

Parlen was first to think of his boots. He gave a 
vicious kick. His boot toe grazed Joe’s kneecap. 



68 


Branded 


At his second kick his shin smashed against Joe’s 
deftly interposed boot heel. 

Atop the luckless fighter’s curse of pain and rage 
dropped the acrid voice of Kiowa Orton: 

“ Hey, bust loose, you bobcats. Men use guns.” 

Astounded, yet each still clinging fast to the 
handle rod, the cousins stared up over their shoul¬ 
ders. They had been far too excited to see the team 
and chuck-wagon come around the far ell of the 
ranch-house. 

Mary’s amazed eyes glanced past the transfixed 
cousins. She saw the hog-tied she-wolf snarling and 

snapping at the livid burn of the ZP that had 
bitten deep into her shoulder. With a cry of horror, 
the girl leaped to the ground and ran to confront 
Joe. Her gentle eyes flared at him with scorn and 
loathing. 

“You cruel mean coward!” she panted. “Go 
away — go away quick! No, don’t you try to make 
excuses. I hate and despise you! I won’t listen — 
not to a single word! You’ve proved what you are, 
you cowardly bully!” 

Even more than the furiously passionate words, 
her look scorched Joe’s very soul. Her previous un¬ 
fairness had been nothing to this unbearable in¬ 
justice. 

His own foolish pride had permitted her to remain 
in the mistaken belief that he had wished to torture 
the she-wolf. But he was too hard-stricken to make 
allowance for this. Without pausing to ask a single 



In Bad 


69 


question, she had blamed him for what he had tried 
to prevent Parlen from doing. She burned him with 
her scorn worse than the iron had burned the wolf — 
and she refused to let him speak a word in self-de¬ 
fense. 

He was not angry at her. He could not be. She 
was Mary. But she had so wounded his love for her 
that he could not have said a word even if she had 
begged him to speak. He let go the branding-iron 
and silently walked away toward the horse corral. 

“ Hold on,” ordered Kiowa. “ Help unload the 
wagon.” 

He neither turned back nor gave any sign that 
he heard her. Mary stood staring after him, still 
too nearly beside herself to realize what she had done. 
A sharper yelp from the struggling wolf broke the 
spell. She ran into the house for her salve. 

Kiowa shifted her hawk gaze to Parlen. He per¬ 
mitted himself a cautious half smile. Her eyes nar¬ 
rowed. 

“I savvy. Sort of what you might call a double 
branding. Come ’round and help unload.” 

Without a backward glance, Joe kept on to the 
horse corral. He roped and saddled his mare and 
rode to the bunk-house. There he lashed his bed-roll 
on behind the saddle. 

When he came back to the house Parlen had gone 
into the kitchen with an armful of provisions. Kiowa 
looked up from the side of bacon she was dragging 
out of the wagon. 

“ Hitting out, are you?” she jeered. “Come to 



70 


Branded 


get jour time? You’ll have to take a check for it.” 

She went into the kitchen. Joe tied his mare to 
the wagon and went around the corner, with a rolled 
gunnysack in his hand. The she-wolf had been freed 
from Parlen’s hogging-strings, but was standing still 
while Mary daubed the brand burn with salve. As 
Joe came in sight the beast’s rumbling growl burst 
into a snarl. She leaped past the kneeling girl to 
strain at her chain in a savage furj. 

Joe unrolled his gunnysack and came up close to 
the raging beast. Before Mary realized what he 
was about, he had the gunnysack over the wolf’s head 
and her body between his knees. Hard as the cap¬ 
tive struggled, she could not escape the iron grip 
of the knees that had held fast to many a hard- 
bucking broncho. Out came Joe’s old jack-knife. 

“ Oh-h! ” gasped Mary. “ Wh-what are you go¬ 
ing to do ? ” 

64 If you want to know,” said Joe, with the grimace 
that was so like his grin, “I’m going to turn my 
wolf loose.” 

The girl was far too wrought up to take the re¬ 
mark literally. It meant to her only a brutal taunt 
that he was about to unleash all the cruelty and evil 
of his nature. 

“Stop!” she cried. “If you dare-” 

She sprang up to run at the torturer. Joe’s 
knife was already ripping through the sackcloth on 
the she-wolf’s neck. He stepped around, flung the 
captive on her side, and backed off. The wolf was 
on her feet again with the quickness of a cat. But, 




In Bad 


71 


confused by her fall and the blinding sack, she rushed 
aslant past Mary. 

When she came to the end of her chain, the violent 
sideward jerk flung her body around like the lash 
of a cracking whip. There was a sound of torn 
cloth, a frantic pawing by the she-wolf at her head, 
and she bounded to her feet, free from both sack 
and chain. 

She whirled to fix her rage-reddened eyes upon 
Joe. He drew his pistol and deliberately started to 
take aim. The she-wolf well knew the meaning of 
firearms, and she was no longer chained fast or 
clogged by a trap. Craft overcame her rage. She 
leaped sideways and bounded from sight around the 
front of the house. 

“ Go get your wolf yourself this time,” Joe in¬ 
vited the wonder-struck girl. “I’m through.” 

He headed back for his mare. His disappearance 
loosed Mary’s rigid limbs. She ran to snatch up 
the chain and collar. The collar had not broken. It 
had been cut almost clean through by the knife blade. 

For many moments the girl stood staring at the 
cut strap in a daze of doubt and perplexity. Joe 
had not hurt the wolf again — he had set her free. 
Yet why — why? Had he at last grown ashamed of 
his cruelty P Had he become sorry for the tormented 
captive? If he had, he was not so heartless as she 
had believed. She would go and take back part of 
what she had said. 

She hurried around to the rear of the kitchen. 
Joe was already past the spring-house and spurring 



72 


Branded 


his mare from a lope into a run. She tried to call 
to him, but her voice went suddenly weak. She could 
not cry out. All she could do was stand there and 
watch him gallop away along the old round-up road 
that led past the hay meadows and off south over 
the divide. 



CHAPTER VI 


POISON 

K IOWA was still at the table, figuring what she 
owed Joe, when Parlen tiptoed back from the 

door. 

“No need for you to bother,” he whispered. 
“We’re rid of him.” 

“How’s that?” 

“ He’s hitting the high places. Must have had 
another set-to with Mary. She’s got him going 
south — and she’s out there watching to see he keeps 
going.” 

The old woman closed her smudged little account 
book. 

“Too sudden to wait for his pay, is he? Well, 
he can wait now till he comes for it. I won’t send 
it after him. Suits me. Way Mackay shied that 
note-” 

Kiowa caught the intent look in the young man’s 
face and alertly sought to cover the slip. 

“Not that it matters a hill of beans. I can get 
along with you and Rocker till the round-up. That’ll 
save one man’s wages, and Mackay will wait till I 
have marketed my steers. He’s got to. With any 
kind of a beef market, I can take up the note and 
buy feed to help carry over the winter.” 

73 


jfl 



74 


Branded 


“ Count on me to boost things all I can, Aunt Ki. 
I’ll do a lot to get Mary.” 

“That’s talking, son. Side me, and I side you. 
Now’s your chance to put your rope on her. But 
mind you don’t try any busting. Gentle her. She 
looks soft as a kitten, but you saw the way she 
scratched Joe. She’s my granddaughter all right, 
even if she does mostly purr and-” 

The girl came in through the sun-flooded doorway, 
her eyes still clouded with perplexity. 

“ He’s gone,” she said. “ Only first he cut her col¬ 
lar— he turned her loose.” 

“Her-—what?” demanded Kiowa. 

“My wolf. He cut her collar. She’s run off.” 

“ Lord A’mighty! ” Kiowa came to her feet, her 
black hawk eyes glittering, her withered lips twitch¬ 
ing. “ Turned that she-devil loose, did he, to butcher 
more of my stock? I’ll pay him out for it. 
I’ll-” 

Mary burst into a shrill tremulous laugh. 

“Why shouldn’t he, Gran’ma? She was his wolf, 
wasn’t she? You never paid) him for her. And I — 
I turned my wolf loose on him! ” 

Into the girl’s eyes gushed tears of grief and re¬ 
morse. She ran into her bedroom. Her grand¬ 
mother looked hard at Parlen. 

“You didn’t make your play with the iron any 
too soon. Go after her, but go slow and easy. As 
for him, keep your mouth shut mostly. When you 
say anything a-tall, make it sort of sad and regret¬ 
ful. Savvy?” 





Poison 


75 


Parlen knew more about women than Joe. He was 
quite willing to follow the advice of the girl’s shrewd 
old grandmother. 

In the days that followed he worked hard enough 
almost to make up for the absence of his cousin. The 
restraining of his feelings for Mary made all the 
more effective his constant display of sympathy and 
devotion. On the one occasion that she spoke of her 
perplexity over Joe’s behavior, he pulled a long face 
and shook his head. 

“We oughtn’t to blame him too much, Mary. 
Things like that seem to run in the blood. Young 
as I was, I can remember his dad grinning the same 
way when he used a branding-iron — Excuse me! I 
didn’t mean to speak of that.” 

A week later Mary favored him with a confession. 

“ Perhaps, if you’re willing to wait, Parlen, I may 
grow to like you as much as you deserve. But why 
do you bother about me? There are the Avery and 
Goodmorrow girls, and ever so many in town — 
girls who’ve been to Denver and boarding-school and 
are far better looking than I am.” 

“ Not to my way of thinking,” he replied. 

Mary colored and parried. 

“ But the Seven Up is all run down, and they 
would bring you shares in big outfits. That ought 
to count with you.” 

“It does. If you knew how much, you might 
begin to realize how much more you count with me. 
I’m on the make, and not ashamed to own it. But 
I’ve got to have you, Mary. I can’t live without 
you.” 



76 


Branded 


Quietly as the young man spoke, his voice shook 
with passion. Mary sensed the fierce intensity of his 
feelings and shrank with alarm. 

He was still working to recover the ground lost 
by this mistake when the lonesome ranch had a visi¬ 
tor. Limpy Smith rode in at sun-down of a blister¬ 
ing hot day. Throughout supper he eyed Mary’s 
shyly reserved face and swapped remarks with “Aunt 
Ki” on range conditions — at such intervals as he 
could get words past his inshoveled food. Mary’s 
cooking was a dream to anyone who had to put up 
with the Circle B feed. 

Not until he had gorged Iris fill and bitten off a big 
“chaw” of Navy plug did the visitor mention the 
errand that had brought him to the Seven Up. He 
grunted abruptly at Parlen: 

“Boss’s sick a-bed. Wants to see you.” 

“ Me?” 

“You done said it.” 

“Why?” 

“ Search me.” 

“By the way, I heard in town that Joe is back at 
home.” 

“ Two men quit. Boss offered the kid half wages.” 
Limpy shot a searching glance at Mary. “ Kid took 
it. Acts sort of like he’d been rode to a finish. All 
the ginger took out of him by someun. Don’t appear 
to care a damn ’bout nothing. Boss’s sore at him. 
Kid just stands and takes the scratching like a 
busted cayuse.” 

Kiowa silenced Parlen with a warning glance. She, 



Poison 


77 


not he, was the one to put the question. 

44 It’s too bad! That’s just the way his pa got to 
acting ’fore he— But, say, ’tain’t true, is it, this 
talk in town ’bout the boy taking to drink? ” 

44 Thay’s a heap too many lies leaking ’round these 
parts,” was all the old buckaroo deigned to reply to 
the question. 

Parlen managed a look of relief that scored him 
a white mark with Mary. After he led the limping 
visitor out to the bunk-house Kiowa got in another 
stroke. She spoke in an irritable mutter, as if 
thinking aloud. 

44 Why shouldn’t he have said so straight out, if 
that talk ain’t true? Where there’s smoke there’s 
bound to be some fire. Mebbe, though, the boy only 
took a nip, and they’re making a barrel of it. One 
in’cent little nip. Still, that was how his pa started.” 

The hint of sympathy in the usually tart voice 
disarmed Mary. The poisoned dart pierced deep, to 
fester with those that had gone before. 

She was up in the morning even earlier than usual, 
and gave Parlen and the visitor an extra good dawn 
breakfast. Limpy took a second helping of every¬ 
thing. When he could cram down no more, he mum¬ 
bled to the scarlet-cheeked cook: 

44 Told the kid to play his luck. He’s no quitter. 
Someun must ’a’ stacked the cards on him.” 

Kiowa’s eyes glitter. 

44 1 ain’t saying he’s a quitter. It’s a free country. 
He had a right to leave if he wanted. What riles 
me is him turning loose that she-devil. Can’t say 



78 


Branded 


how many head she’s pulled down since.” 

“ Let’s try and forget it, Aunt Ki,” urged Parlen. 
“After all, Joe is still pretty young.” 

He took Mary’s hand in a gentle clasp. 

“ Good-bye. I’m coming back fast as I can. You 
know why.” 

She gave him a somewhat forced smile. Limpy 
edged between them. 

“You — uh — Miss Mary, you ain’t got no word 
to send to the kid, have you?’ 

“ Only that I hope he will do well — with his 
uncle.” 

The old top-rider limped out into the red dawn, 
visibly depressed by the calm answer. 

On the fourth evening Parlen returned from his 
visit to the Circle B. He told that his uncle had been 
poisoned by eating a spoiled can of cheap corn. Lib¬ 
eral doses of moonshine had barely pulled him 
through. Joe, it seemed, had known where to get a 

jug. 

Their uncle had expected to die, and had sent for 
his older nephew to take charge of the ranch. He 
always had thought Joe too unsteady for the job; 
and now the kid had lost all his get-up-and-get, as 
well. 

“But the day after I came, Uncle Lor was well 
enough to sit up,” Parlen went on to explain. “ So 
of course I hurried back. No need to tell you why, 
Mary.” 

“You’re none too soon,” put in Kiowa. “That 
devilish Splay Foot has had the gall to prowl close 



Poison 


79 


in every night since you left. She actually came in 
sight of Mary yesterday sun-down.” 

u But she’s killed only one calf near the ranch,” 
said Mary. 44 I really think the poor thing wants to 
see me.” 

Kiowa chuckled at the joke. 

46 See you! It’s dollars to doughnuts she came 
down from the hills glutted, filled up extra full on 
the calf, and got scared oil ’fore she went hungry 
again. Wait till she takes a new mate. She’ll be¬ 
gin slaughtering then just for fun. And in the 
spring there’ll be another litter of pups to train. 
Lord! I could wring* that fool boy’s neck! ” 

46 Here’s hoping I get her first,” said Parlen. He 
held up a little drum-shaped metal tube, somewhat 
larger than the muzzle of a rifle. 44 Look. I bor¬ 
rowed Joe’s Maxim silencer. With smokeless powder, 
and this to muffle the shot, Splay Foot will not know 
w T here the bullets are coming from, if I manage to 
get in sight of her. She’s just as apt as not to head 
straight for me.” 

Kiowa permitted herself a gleam of hope. 

44 Mebbe, after all, there’s something in what Mary 
says. You lay in wait mornings and evenings while 
she does the chores. Whether it’s her or the calves 
that she-devil’s hankering for, it’ll be all the same 
if she shows herself.” 

44 But it won’t, Gran’ma,” protested Mary. 44 Don’t 
you see? I know the poor thing must be killed. 
But if she should show herself because she wanted 
to come to me, I’d never forgive myself. It would 



80 


Branded 


be like betraying a child that trusted in my protec¬ 
tion.” 

To both her grandmother and Parlen this was a 
fantastic absurdity. A wolf was a wolf, and Splay 
Foot had already proved herself the biggest and 
craftiest and most murderous of wolves since the 
prime of her mother, Gotch Ear. But even Kiowa 
said nothing. She knew her granddaughter. As Joe 
had learned to his bitter cost, when the girl took a 
stand on what she considered a matter of right and 
wrong, nothing could budge her judgment. 

Parlen pretended to agree with her, as he fitted 
the silencer on his carefully oiled rifle. 

He lay out three nights on the roofs of the feed 
sheds. But the she-wolf either scented the lurker, 
or else she had seen him ride back from the south and 
decided that the ranch was too unsafe for her. When 
he found no more cattle killed close in, Parlen set 
out to hunt down the wily beast. 

Joe had told him about her run and how he had 
planted his traps. He had, left the traps in the 
bunk-house. Parlen found the run and set the traps 
with what he considered great skill and care. Splay 
Foot dug them out and sprung them, one after 
another. She even dragged three of them together, 
in unmistakable wolfish derision of the trapper. 

Parlen next tried poisoned bait. It killed a few 
coyotes. Splay Foot passed by tallow balls and the 
freshest of meat. As before her capture, she ate only 
of her own kills, and of them no more than a single 
meal each. 



Poison 


81 


But one moonlit night Parlen glimpsed the great 
beast slinking over a ridge crest. His hastily aimed 
bullet grazed her flank. She took the hint and 
drifted south, over the divide, to her old run on the 
Circle B range. 

When Kiowa heard that the she-wolf was slaughter¬ 
ing Taylor Brent’s stock, she promptly credited 
Parlen with seventy-five dollars. This was the re¬ 
ward she had pledged to him and Joe, if either should 
drive the daughter of Gotch Ear back to the range 
of the man she hated. 

Parlen asked for a cash payment. But Kiowa was 
nursing her slim bank account. He then offered to 
take her note for the amount and for his now over¬ 
due wages. She cannily refused to give her note, 
but promised him interest on his money if Splay Foot 
did not come back. When he still argued that he 
should have the note, she quashed him with an acrid 
taunt: 

« Don’t forget Mary. You ain’t got her roped yet, 
much less branded.” 

Parlen “ gave in,” but he did not forget to score 
a black mark against Kiowa Orton. She had out¬ 
played him. 



CHAPTER VII 


AN OVER-REACH 

T HE chance visitor who hadi brought the news 
of Splay Foot’s ravages on the Circle B was 
soon followed by the owner of that brand. 

Parlen and Rocker were stacking the last load of 
the short crop of hay, and Mary was helping her 
grandmother do the evening chores, when two riders 
jogged into sight on the round-up road. Kiowa 
stared, unblinking, into the sunset glare. 

“Cusses and calamity,” she muttered. “That’s 
Lor Brent.” 

“And Joe,” murmured Mary. “I’ll go get sup¬ 
per.” 

Her grandmother’s frown deepened into a scowl as 
she glanced around at the hurrying girl. If Mary 
was so flustered by the mere sight of the boy, there 
was no telling what might happen. 

The bright hawk eyes of the old woman stared 
with a hostile glint as the riders rode up. Brent sat 
his saddle as hard and unbending as a stone image. 
Joe slouched loose, his face a-grin with poorly acted 
indifference. The laws of hospitality forced upon 
Kiowa a show of cordiality. 

“ Howdy. ’Light and stable your hosses. Mary’s 
gone to hustle chuck.” 

Brent was already heading his tired horse towards 

82 


An Over-Reach 


83 


the barn. Joe turned after him, with a dejected 
mumble: 

“Looks like she thought I was bringing both my 
wolves.” 

“ One’s ’nough,” snapped Kiowa, her glance dart¬ 
ing past him to the stiff back of his uncle. 

A little later she walked to the house with Brent. 
Joe had replied to the hearty hail of Parlen with a 
careless hand flip. He loitered on the way to the 
house. His uncle spent some time at the wash-bench 
outside the door, making a thick lather of suds. He 
was not paying for the soap. Joe dallied still longer 
with soap and water and comb before going in. 

His uncle and Kiowa were seated at the far end of 
the big livingroom-kitchen, talking about the pro¬ 
spective beef market. Mary stood at the stove, busy 
with her pots and pans. Her high color was easily 
accounted for by the heat. She gave Joe a calm nod 
of welcome and pointed to the others. 

“ You’ve had a hot ride,” she said. “ It’s cool by 
the window.” 

Under his show of indifference Joe’s nerves were 
raw. In Mary’s calmness he saw only cold contempt. 

“ It’s a sight too chilly here by the fire,” he gibed, 
and he went to fling himself into a chair behind his 
uncle. 

Before long Parlen came in to wish his uncle a 
quiet good-day and to offer Joe his hand. Joe did 
not appear to see it. Their uncle fixed his hard gaze 
on Parlen. 

“What’s this Aunt Ki tells me about paying you 



84 


Branded 


seventy-five dollars to run that splay-footed she-wolf 
onto my range?” 

“Not to run her onto the Circle B, but off the 
Seven Up,” Parlen carefully explained. “ I man¬ 
aged only to scratch her, and she happened to head 
south. You know I would have killed her if I could. 
Aunt Ki has a hundred up for her scalp.” 

Brent’s eyes became a trifle less stony. 

“Twenty-five dollars more. Yes, you would have 
killed her.” 

“Yfell, I’m the seventy-five ahead, Uncle Lor, and 
I’ll collect the hundred if Joe doesn’t beat me to it. 
I guess if he gets another chance at the murdering 
devil he’ll not bring her. in alive and then turn her 
loose again.” 

Brent’s eyes went glassy. 

“Since you—since I heard that, I have been 
charging off his wages' as part damages for the cows 
she is killing.” 

Kiowa chuckled. 

“If Splay Foot ain’t stopped 'pronto , the boy’ll be 
working it off till he dies of old age. Why don’t you 
put up another hundred and send him out to get 
her ? ” 

“ He’ll go without the money,” said Brent. “ I 
brought him along to get his traps—-as well as to 
witness for me.” 

The last words made Kiowa prick up her ears. 
But range manners did not permit the questioning 
of a guest. If Brent had intended to say anything 
more about his business, Mary’s call to supper in- 



An Over-Reach 


85 


terrupted him. Throughout the meal he had no word 
of praise for the cook. But as she knew him to be an 
indifferent eater, the manner in which he cleared his 
plate was high praise for her skill. 

Her pleasure over this was quite spoiled by Joe. 
He had always been blessed with a hearty appetite. 
Now he hardly touched his food. His face showed 
never a glimmer of its old-time cheerful grin. She 
was unable to stifle her pity for him. Even his sulky 
glumness could not keep her resentful over his harsh 
discourtesy before supper. 

He had been suffering. He still was suffering. 
Given the chance she might have managed to cast a 
line across the gulf of misunderstanding that, sep¬ 
arated them. The chance was not given. 

Taylor Brent had come on business. He never 
went anywhere except on business. Having eaten his 
fill of Kiowa Orton’s food, without pay, he pro¬ 
ceeded to talk business. Out came his worn old bill- 
folder. 

“ I bought your note from Mackay,” he said. “ It 
is over-due. I want my money.” 

Kiowa blinked and rallied. 

“ Just like Mackay to back the top dog. Put you 
next that I was in a hole, did he ? ” 

“ No.” 

“He didn’t? Then who was it blabbed to you 
’bout my private concerns ? ” The old woman fixed 
her hate-reddened eyes on Joe. “Who was the 
drunken blabber?” 

Joe looked for his uncle to clear him. Brent 



86 


Branded 


coldly ignored the appealing glance. He took the 
promissory note from his bill-folder. 

“How I learned about this is neither here nor 
there, Mrs. Orton. What I wish to know is how 
soon you can pay it.” 

“After the round-up, when I market my beef 
steers.” 

“Too long to wait. The note is already a week 
over-due. I want my money now.” 

“Whistle,” jeered Kiowa. “Even you can’t 
squeeze blood out of a turnip.” 

Brent looked at a figure-covered slip of paper. 

“ If you cannot pay in cash, I will take over your 
school land leases, and call it square.” 

“Sure you’d call it square. I’d call it crooked. 
Them hay meadow leases are worth double that note, 
and you know it. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay 
you in steers, at the market. Take ’em, or wait for 
your money — or sue, if you like. I’ll law you to 
the limit.” 

The challenge failed to strike fire on Brent’s icy 
flint. He was too close-fisted to pay a lawyer and 
court costs, when he could attain his ends by a little 
more waiting. Old Kiowa was short of hay for the 
winter feeding. She would have to borrow again. 
Still another way to gather in the Seven Up had been 
suggested to him. 

Meantime the steer offer promised a double profit. 
He had learned that Mackay’s bank was in a tight fix 
from too many frozen loans. The banker had sold 
him Kiowa’s unsecured note at a heavy discount. 




An Over-Reach 


87 


On the other hand, the beef market was very low. 
He knew he could profitably hold a bunch of Seven 
Up steers for a rise. 

He held out the little weekly newspaper published 
at the cow-town. 

“ I’ll take your beef at Saturday’s market.” 

Kiowa looked at the quotations — and blinked. 
They were a cent under the already low prices of 
the week before. But Brent had called her bluff. 

“It’s a go,” she said quickly. “Pari, show your 
uncle to a good bunk. Sooner we hit the hay the 
better.” 

Joe led the way out, keeping his eyes downcast. 
He failed to see the pitying gaze of Mary. Night 
only deepened his despair. He was sure now that he 
had lost all his chances. Mary had not relented. At 
daybreak, unable to endure the sight of what he had 
lost, he asked Parlen to bring a cold snack to him 
out at the corrals. 

Parlen lost nothing with Mary by the sympathetic 
tone in which he said that he guessed poor Joe did 
not feel much like facing Aunt Ki after what had 
come out about the note. 

Most of the Seven Up cattle were up in the hills. 
But by noon Kiowa, Rocker and the cousins had 
driven in enough steers from the lower range to 
more than pay the note. The real struggle came 
when Brent and Kiowa began to haggle over the 
weight of the animals. Kiowa claimed they were all 
in prime condition. Brent insisted that fully half 
were runts. The contest did not end until Kiowa 




88 


Branded 


vowed she would be allowed her estimate, or the 
deal was off. 

After this came the branding. Mary had taken 
no part in the little round-up. But she came out to 
the cattle corral while the selected steers were being 
worked through the chute. The rule for Brent’s 
riders was never to go out without a saddle-iron, in 
case of meeting a maverick. Even Brent himself 
always had a short iron on his saddle. He would 
not unbend to do ordinary range work, but a maver¬ 
ick was so much money found. There was ever a 
possibility of running upon one when riding out 
alone to spy on his men. 

He had now turned his iron over to Parlen. But 
Parlen had chosen the task of manning the cross bars 
of the chute. This threw the actual branding upon 
Joe. He set about the hated task with expert swift¬ 
ness, never once delaying the work of the others. 
While they freed each branded steer and penned an¬ 
other between the bars, he scorched his face at the 
fire, heating the branding-irons. A white-hot iron 
burns less painfully than one only red-hot. 

W T hen Mary came around the corral to the chute 
she saw the set grimace on Joe’s face. She stopped 
short, repulsed again by his seeming enjoyment of 
what he was doing. Then she noticed how white he 
was keeping the irons, regardless of scorched fingers. 
She drew nearer. He was so intent upon his work 
that he did not see her. 

She watched his face. The closer she looked, the 
more certainly the truth forced itself upon her. Joe 



An Over-Reach 


89 


was not grinning. Each time the iron smoked on a 
steer’s flank he wrinkled his eyes and screwed up his 
mouth. It looked like a grin, but it was not. 

Kiowa saw the changed look in Mary’s eyes. There 
could be no doubt that the girl had begun to catch 
on. Once aware of how Joe had been maligned, she 
would swing to the other extreme. Quick action was 
needed. 

44 My, my! You sure can handle a saddle-iron, 
boy,” she called out in derisive praise. 44 Looks like 
you been having a sight of practice lately. Hope 
it wasn’t on my calves.” 

Joe pretended not to hear this. The old woman 
went on relentlessly: 

“Well, I guess it sort of comes natural. Like 
father, like son, they say. Though, come to think, 
your pa managed to dodge the vigilantes, and no¬ 
body actually proved his brand-blotting on him — 
in court.” 

Too much was enough. Joe stopped work to look 
at his uncle. 

44 You know my father was square and white, 
Uncle Lor. You can prove it. I can’t. Tell this 
lady she’s a liar.” 

Taylor Brent looked over his nephew’s head at the 
sun. 

44 Go on with your work,” he ordered. 44 We’ll 
have a late start as it is.” 

Joe dropped the branding-iron and went over to 
his waiting mare. He rode off as if he were all alone, 
miles out in the hills. 



90 


Branded 


44 Heighty-tighty! ” mocked Kiowa. 44 If that 
ain’t just like his pa to a T. ’Member, Lor, when¬ 
ever Sam got caught in something crooked, he used 
to bluff he didn’t care a bean.” 

44 The young whelp has grown so worthless that a 
quirting would be a waste of good leather,” said 
Brent. “I’ll make him get that splay-foot wolf of 
yours. After that he shall shift for himself. I’m 
done with him.” 

44 What could you expect? Like father, like son,” 
repeated Kiowa. 44 Take the irons, Rocker.” 

Mary drew back around the corral and returned 
to the house — wondering, doubting, heavy with grief 
and remorse. If Joe were going the way of his 
father, had it not been she who had started him on 
the downward trail? 

Brent had gone around with Kiowa to help drive 
the unbranded steers into the chute. 

44 Can’t trail the bunch alone,” he said. 44 That 
young fool is locoed. He’ll keep headed for home, 
once he’s started. I’ll need his cousin.” 

For once Kiowa did not haggle with her enemy. 
She knew he would not turn over her note until all 
the steers had been branded and delivered. She 
could afford to loan Parlen to him for the drive. 
Keen judge of beef on the hoof as was the owner of 
the Circle B, she was still keener. She knew that the 
steers weighed under her estimate. 



CHAPTER VIII 


FIRED 

P ARLEN was so hurried away by his uncle that 
he had x.o time to take leave of Mary. 

He returned from the Circle B confident that he 
now had only to tell the girl to set the day. She had 
already shown how little use she had for Joe. Joe 
was on the skids, whereas he was on the make. Mary 
had as much as admitted that she liked him. All he 
had to do, now that Joe was clean out of the running, 
was to go in and take her. 

To his vast surprise, she greeted him with a re¬ 
serve that bordered on coldness. It was like the bar¬ 
rier that she had raised between herself and Joe. He 
was no less astonished than outraged. The cases 
were altogether different. Joe had proved himself 
a worthless, loose-finger fool. He, Parlen Brent, 
already had money in bank. Also, he had driven a 
close bargain with his uncle in regard to a certain 
confidential deal. One of the considerations was a 
new will. 

Cautious as was his nature, his resentment over 
the change in Mary would have goaded him into 
harsh scoldings. But old Kiowa’s tongue could 
smooth down as well as rasp. 

“Don’t you mind the girl acting upetty, Pari,” 
she interposed. “It’s on you, anyhow. You went 
91 


92 


Branded 


off without saying good-bye to her. She’s been off 
her feed ever since.” 

“Why, Gran’ma,” cried Mary. “I — I’ve not. 

It wasn’t that at all. It’s only-” 

She burst into tears and dodged past Parlen’s out- 
reaching arms to run and hide herself in her bed¬ 
room. 

Her grandmother eyed the disappointed suitor 
scornfully. 

“Thought you had more hoss-sense. You ought 
to know girls are kittle cattle. You come mighty 
nigh spilling yourself. I told you to gentle her, and 
here you started in to file your spur rowels.” 

“ She didn’t even give me a handshake,” com¬ 
plained Parlen. “ I might have been any stray 
buckaroo drifting in from God-knows-where, like 
Mex Chavez and Hooch Huggins.” 

“Huh! I been wishing your uncle joy of that 
pair of misbegotten brand-blotters ever since he rid 
me of ’em. Here’s hoping they' rustle a bunch of his 
prime steers! ” 

Parlen was not to be side-tracked. 

“We’re talking about Mary.” 

“Do tell! Well, my say-so is you’ll be wise if you 
keep your spurs clean off your boots, dealing with 
her. If you want to know what’s ailing her, it’s Joe. 
Seems she caught on that his grin when he’s branding 
ain’t exactly a sign of rejoicing.” 

“ But how could that make any difference ? She 
knows he’s done for. It’s not alone his fool indiffer¬ 
ence to money. He has quit cold. Used to risk his 




Fired 


93 


neck to lead the bunch. Now he’s become a tailender 
drag. She must have seen it herself.” 

Kiowa gazed out at the summer-seared grass and 
dried stalks of flowers long since withered and 
fallen. 

“Wimmen— some of ’em — are funny fools. I 
stood thirty years of Hell-roaring Jake Orton. Dun- 
no as Mary’ll stay hitched ’fyou turn out mean as 
your uncle. She’s mighty dutiful. So mebbe, once 
you get her roped and branded — Just now, though, 
she’s feeling sorry for Joe, ’cause she thinks she 
didn’t treat him fair. ’Fyou try to bust her you’ll 
get throwed hard.” 

“ Joe ! After all his bad acting? ” 

“ Don’t fash yourself ’bout him any. My guess is 
she’s only sort of sorry for him and sore at herself. 
Go to knocking him, and she’ll think she thinks a 
heap of him. All you got to do is ride with a loose 
rein and give him plenty of rope. He’ll hang him¬ 
self, see if he don’t.” 

Parlen felt in his pocket. 

“Why didn’t I think to give him back his Maxim 
silencer? Remember, Uncle Lor said he’d make him 
go get Splay Foot, then would fire him.” 

“Didn’t I tell you? Soon’s he’s kicked out, he’ll 
drift off like his pa done. ’Fore he drifts back, 
you’ll have Mary. Only you’ve got to go slow and 
gentle her.” 

The innate caution and calculation of Parlen’s 
nature forced him to agree to this sound reasoning. 
When he met Mary the next morning he had assumed 



94 


Branded 


a forgiving, mildly appealing manner that gave her 
nothing to resist. As a result, she herself soon be¬ 
gan to take down the barrier that she had raised. 
Within a few days she was, to all appearances, as 
frank and friendly as before Joe’s disturbing visit. 

Kiowa kept on urging the now impatient lover to 
go slow. He was conceited enough, however, to mis¬ 
take Mary’s normal friendliness for encouragement. 
Under his habitual calm and almost wooden look and 
manner, he was a molten volcano of desire. 

One morning, after breakfast, Kiowa stepped out 
after Rocker to change an order. Mary brought 
Parlen the last panful of flapjacks. He caught hold 
of her hand. She smilingly sought to draw it from 
his clasp. 

He sprang up and seized her in his arms. For a 
moment she lay on his breast, so astonished that 
she could not move. He showered kisses on her half- 
parted lips, on her wide-gazing bewildered eyes. It 
was as if he had burned her with a branding-iron. 
She struggled to free herself. He held fast. His 
eyes were flaming with love — a devouring, rapa¬ 
cious, wolfish love. 

Unable to break loose from him, she cried out. 
Her grandmother darted into the dim-lit kitchen, as 
aggressively alert as a wildcat. 

“Hey? What’s this?” she demanded. “Leave 
her go, Pari.” 

“ I’ll not,” he half shouted. “ I’ve got her. She’s 
mine. I’m going to keep her.” 

“You are, are you? What say, girl?” 



Fired 


95 


Mary had clasped her hands over her face to shut 
out the sight of those wolfish eyes. 

“ No-no-no!” she gasped. “Oh, Gran’ma— 
Gran’ma! ” 

The old woman stepped over to the deer antlers 
from which hung her ancient belt and Colts. She 
spoke in a hushed tone that was far more menacing 
than loud-mouthed curses. 

“Asking for it, are you, buster?” 

Though fairly beside himself with passion, Parlen 
could still hear and see and understand. He shoved 
Mary out from him. But he did not let go his hold. 
He held her at arm’s-length between him and her 
grim-eyed grandmother. 

“ Uh! ” grunted Kiowa. “ That’s more like. Now 
you leggo. I ain’t going to drill you, ’fyou don’t 
get funny again. Leggo and ’pologize for behaving 
that way.” 

Assured of safety, Parlen released his living shield. 
He took on an air of injured innocence. 

“ What’ve I done, Pd like to know? You act as 
if I’d committed murder. Yet all this time you’ve 
been backing me to win, and she herself — she’s been 
leading me on.” 

“Oh, no — no, I never, Gran’ma. He’s always 
seemed friendly to* me, so I tried to like him. But I 
never, never gave him leave to ki-kiss me 1 ” 

Kiowa nodded towards the door. 

“ Told you not to try any busting. You’ve went 
and done it. You’re spilled.” 

Parlen’s face went white with cold anger. His 



96 


Branded 


eyes became glassy like his uncle’s. 

44 She’s mine. She’s going to be my wife. You’re 
going to make her. I’ll make you make her.” 

44 As how?” 

The dryness of the query failed to warn the threat- 
ener. 

44 Wait and see. For one thing, you can’t pay 
what you owe me. For another thing, I-” 

Caution jerked him to a sudden check. 

44 Go on. I’m listening,” invited Kiowa. 44 Uh — 
run out of gall, have you? ’Fraid to make a bluff. 
Well, here’s me to you. Just you clean out of here 
muy pronto. Vamoose! You’re fired. Go roll your 
blankets.” 

44 My money. You owe me-” 

44 Your check’ll be waiting soon’s you’re saddled- 
up. Git!” 

Once more overcome by a volcanic upheaval of 
passion, Parlen forgot all caution and stepped to¬ 
wards Mary. He had never been nearer to quick 
death. Kiowa’s left hand dropped on the hilt of her 
Colts. Not an instant too soon, Parlen stopped 
short, stricken by the look of horror in Mary’s eyes. 
He turned and went heavily out into the glare of sun¬ 
rise. 

Mary sank into a chair and dropped forward on 
the table to hide her white face in her arms. She 
had always thought of Parlen as a very mild, not 
unpleasant edition of his uncle. His keenness over 
money had seemed a matter-of-course. Of all the 
men she knew, he was one of the last she would have 





Fired 


97 


imagined looking at her with that wolfish gloating. 

For a time the only sound in the room was the 
scratch of Kiowa’s rusty pen. As she tore the check 
from its stub she pursed her lips at the downbent 
golden head. 

44 Don’t you fret, girl,” she said. 44 I figgered I 
could use him to buck his uncle. But I don’t blame 
you a mite. If he’d gentled you, ’twould ’a’ showed 
he wasn’t all Brent. As ’tis, we’re in luck to be shut 
of the whole bunch. Good riddance, I say.” 

At the thud of hoofs coming from the bunk-house, 
she went out with the check. No kin of Taylor Brent 
should again darken her door. 

For a few days there was little to do on the Seven 
Up. Kiowa made no move to hire new riders. Every 
day’s delay meant so much saving of wages. She 
was still waiting when her former hands, Mex Chavez 
and lanky, red-nosed Hooch Huggins, came jogging 
from over the divide. 

Old Kiowa was as little fearful of the unsavory 
pair as she would have been of two rattlesnakes. 
They rode meekly around to where she and Mary 
were helping Rocker mend the feed-corral fence. 
The Mexican’s beady black eyes glanced everywhere 
except at his former senora boss. Hooch looked 
down his nose. 

44 Howdy,” he ventured. 

44 Huh,” grunted Kiowa. 44 You can trot right 
back and tell Lor Brent he can keep his coyotes to 
home.” 

44 Like to oblige, ma’am, only can’t be did,” apolo- 



98 


Branded 


gized Hooch. “ He done fired us.” 

“ Can’t say I blame him.” 

“No’um. Don’t my ownself — nor Mex. He 
don’t need us now, with both his nevvys back — on 
half wages. Me and Mex was going to quit, any¬ 
how. The joke sure was on us. ’Fyou don’t mine 
me saying it, ma’am, you’re on’y cream tartar to his 
oil of vitriol. That’s litter-chure. I got it out a 
book.” 

“Do tell!” 

“ Yes’um. And the hog-wash he calls chuck ’d 
sicken a buzzard. Me and Mex allowed we’d take a 
pasear over thisaway, case you might be wanting to 
take on a pair of A-one riders.” 

Kiowa had to have her gibe. 

“ Scum’s one sort of top-rider. Mebbe I might 
put up with such while waiting for the real article.” 

The beady eyes of Chavez glinted furtively. But 
Hooch swallowed the insult as if it had been a choice 
bit of Mary’s cooking. 

“ Thanky, Aunt Ki. Me and Mex knows now 
when we’re well off. You can count on us to side you 
to the limit ’gainst that dirty, cold-blooded cuss 
t’other side the divide.” 

The venom with which this was spoken decided 
Kiowa. 

“Never figgered on swapping you back from Lor 
Brent,” she grumbled. “Might do worse, though. 
I got the short end of the bargain before. Even a 
pair of fourflusher badmen like you can’t be worse 
’n anybody that’s blood-kin to him. You say Parl’s 



Fired 


99 


home on half wages. How ’bout worthless Joe? Still 
hunting Splay Foot? ” 

Hooch rolled his quid of tobacco, spat, and blurted 
in a distressed tone: 

“I ain’t got nothing ’gainst the kid. ’Tain’t his 
fault he’s got to tote a saddle-iron every time he 
goes out to get that blamed she-devil. He’s work¬ 
ing for his uncle — and you know Brent. All the 
same, me and Mex’re Seven Up men now. Coming 
over the divide we seen more’n one calf with a fresh 
Circle B brand ’longside Seven Up cows.” 

The old woman’s black eyes glittered. 

“You did, did you? Well, your first orders are 
to get that rustler. It’s fifty dollars for him dead.” 

“Oh!” cried Mary. “Oh, Gran’ma, please!” 

“You’re right,” said Kiowa. “The young cuss 
ain’t worth a red cent dead. I’ll make it two hun¬ 
dred if you men get him alive, with legal proof he’s 
rustling for Lor Brent.” 

“I savvy,” said Hooch. “It’s the old rustler you 
want to noose, not the kid. Just you leave it to us, 
Aunt Ki. Mex can track like a ’Pache. We’ll catch 
the kid with his iron hot. He’s' mighty quick on the 
draw— But we won’t hurt him a bit, Miss Mary, 
not if we can help. That two hundred looks good 
to us. We’ll fetch him straight to your grammaw. 
If it’s on’y his uncle she’s after, she’ll let the kid 
off — after he turns state ev’dence.” 

“Sure,” agreed Kiowa. “Just let me once land 
Lor Brent in the pen, and I’ll die happy. The boy 
don’t amount to shucks, one way or t’other.” 



CHAPTER IX 


THE RUSTLERS 

P ROVISIONED by their new boss, Hooch and 
Mex headed back to the divide. On their way 
they turned aside to a hollow pine log for a cached 
saddle-iron. 

On the divide, mid-morning of the next day, Hooch 
sat crouched between two boulders of a high bridge 
crest. The position gave him a long view in three 
directions. On the remaining side, the northwest, 
the crags, cedars and chaparral of the Yamparos 
brought thick cover within short pistol shot of the 
lier-in-wait. The watcher did not. look that way. 
What rider would punish his horse by beating 
through the broken hills until compelled to do so by 
the work of the round-up? 

Two days before Parlen had headed the sinister 
pair towards the Seven Up his uncle had sent Joe 
out towards the far southwest end of the Circle B 
range. From thence had come the latest reports of 
Splay Foot’s killings. Hooch did not expect to see 
the boy for several days. 

He was now on guard, while in the grassy draw 
below him Mex Chavez manufactured evidence. The 
materials were the Mexican’s braided horsehair reata , 
a smokeless fire of dry wood, a saddle-iron and the 
calf of a Seven Up cow. Having finished the pleas- 
100 


The Rustlers 


101 


ant task, Chavez rode down the draw in search of 
another calf. Up above him Hooch shifted along 
the ridge. 

As they passed out of sight, Joe Gale broke cover 
from behind the nearest clump of chaparral and 
loped his mare down to the branded calf. He had 
tracked Splay Foot north into the Yamparos, lost 
all trace of her, and struck down out of the higher 
hills along the divide. 

As he now came to the Seven Up cow he saw the 
raw burn of a Circle B on her calf. For several 
moments he sat limp in his saddle, staring vacant¬ 
eyed at the fresh brand. Suddenly his slack jaw 
clenched tight; his head went up; his back stiffened. 
He set spurs to his mare and loped away aslant the 
divide towards the old round-up road. 

Some time later Chavez worked around into the 
valley north of the first ridge crossed by Joe. Hooch 
had been right in claiming that the Mexican was 
almost as good a tracker as an Apache. He saw and 
instantly recognized the hoofprints of Joe’s mare. 

Joe did not ride as hard as his trackers. But he 
had a long start. He was still well ahead when he 
reached the ranch. 

As on the previous day, Kiowa and Mary were 
helping Rocker mend the corrals. They did not heed 
the approaching rider until he came loping around 
the cow corral and threw his mare on her haunches. 

The half-witted Rocker let out a cackle of pleased 
laughter. He liked Joe. Mary straightened up, 
forgetful of all else than her eagerness to tell Joe how 



Branded 


10 2 


sorry she felt for her unfairness to him. He looked 
past as if he did not see her, and fixed his contemp¬ 
tuous gaze on her grandmother. 

44 Chuck it,” he said. 44 You’ve no call to reach 
for your gun. I’ve brought you no wolf this time — 
my own or anyone else’s. Keep that hand away from 
your gun if you don’t want the old has-been shot 
out of it.” 

Kiowa paused to consider. She might be able to 
beat the boy to the draw, and then, again, she might 
not. Through a slit in the corral rails she caught a 
glimpse of two riders racing around the hill, a mile 
away. If she could catch Joe off his guard before 
they arrived, she might save the two hundred dol¬ 
lars of the reward. But she was not fool enough to 
take too great a risk. 

44 What d’you mean,' jumping on us like that?” 
she rasped. 44 Took you for one the rustler coyotes 
that’ve been misbranding my calves.” 

44 Just what I dropped in to tell you about, Aunt 
Ki. Lost Splay Foot’s trail up in the hills this morn¬ 
ing. Working out, down the divide, I spotted your 
coyotes — Hooch Huggins and Mex Chavez — using 
a Circle B iron. The cow was a Seven Up. I made 
sure of it, then hit in to put you wise.” 

The old woman pretended to believe. 

44 Blood sure does tell. You’ve streaked it here to 
tattle on your own uncle. Willing to testify he’s 
rustling my stock, are you?” 

Joe reddened. 

44 I’ve about as much reason to love Uncle Lor a c i 



The Rustlers 


103 


you have. I was going to tell you something still 
worse. It would make you love him a lot more than 
any rustling. But I guess you want to wait and 
hear the happy news from him. About this rustling, 
I make no charges against him, and you’ll not say 
I have. I’ve taken the trouble, though, to give you 
a tip over that brace of badmen he’s hiring.” 

“He’s still hiring them, is he? You’ll swear 
they’re still working for him? ” 

“ I will not. They may have quit him, for all I 
know. I can and will swear to just one thing — 
which is, they branded one of your calves with the 
Circle B. Any more questions? If not, I’ll jog 
along—after thanking you for your grateful ap¬ 
preciation of my putting you wise. It’s in keeping 
with the way you’ve scratched me and lied about 
my father.” 

The mare swung around to the touch of the reins 
on the side of her neck. 

“ Stop! ” ordered Kiowa. “ I’ve got you covered. 
Put ’em up and get off.” 

Joe looked over his shoulder at the muzzle of the 
ancient Colts. His pain-furrowed face smoothed out 
in a quiet smile. 

“ Turn her loose, Aunt Kl. I’m ready. You and 
Mary and Uncle Lor, between you, have made life 
hell for me. All I’m asking is that you’ll put the 
first shot where it’ll do the most good.” 

He turned his head and back square upon the cow- 
woman and started his mare off at a walk. As 
Kiowa raised her old Colts, Mary cried out and ran 





104 


Branded 


to fling herself before the muzzle. But there was no 
need. The revolver had already sagged down in 
her grandmother’s shaking hand. 

44 The young devil!” choked out the exasperated 
old woman. 44 The young devil! He knows I can’t 
shoot him in' the back.” 

44 Gran’—ma!” gasped Mary. 44 He’s going 
away! Call him back! He’s going away — with¬ 
out even speaking to me! Hurry ! Hurry ! he’s be¬ 
ginning to lope! ” 

Kiowa gripped the arm of the breathlessly frantic 
girl in her bony fingers. 

44 Leave be,” she muttered. 44 Hooch and Mex are 
laying for him up the road. They’ll bring him in — 
alive. You can bet your boots they won’t risk los¬ 
ing that two hundred.” 

The mare was already rounding the end of the 
feed sheds. Joe did not look back. He had heard 
Mary cry out, but it had been to her grandmother, 
not to him. She had stood there all the time without 
so much as a word to him. She believed him a cruel 
coward, and she had refused to let him defend him¬ 
self or even attempt an explanation. 

The ingratitude of Aunt Ki did not matter. If 
only he had been able to taunt the perverse old Tar¬ 
tar into shooting, that would have been a happy 
short-cut to the end of the trouble trail. Now he 
must drag along in the dust, hopeless of winning 
Mary and hopeless of life without her. What was 
the use of living? 

His steadily loping mare swung around a turn of 



The Rustlers 


105 


the road past a screening thicket. Out of the tail 
of his eye he glimpsed the outflinging arms of Hooch 
and Mex. As he ducked, a touch of the rein spun 
his nimble mare around sideways towards the liers- 
in-wait. The lanky man’s rope swished past. But 
the reata of the Mexican had been flung sooner. Its 
noose whipped down over Joe’s head. 

The horsehair rope drew taut. Had not the mare 
swerved so swiftly in at the thrower, her rider would 
have been jerked out of his saddle. As it was, he 
had time to draw. The bullet struck the backward 
tugging arm of Chavez. The Mexican yelled and 
dropped the reata . 

Gone was all Joe’s gloom. For the moment at 
least life was well worth living. He grinned. 

“ Howdy, old-timers. Quite a s’prise party. Is 
it not? Let’s see you stretch. Just reach me down 
a star or two.” 

Chavez stifled his curses to whine. 

“ Per done, amigo . You busta meo — meo arrum.” 

“ That’s all right, Greaserio. Only keep t’other 
one skyed. Now, Booze-nose, what’s the game? 
Make mouth-noises like a little man. I crave for to 
hear your seraph voice.” 

“Aw, let up, kid,” appealed Hooch. “ Here we 
just wanted to have a leetle fun hazing you, and you 
go and get mad — bust my sidekick’s arm. We own 
up the joke’s on us. Le’s call quits.” 

“ Heap of fun if you’d spilled me! Come on, now. 
Trot out your next lie, if you don’t want to reach 
town in a hog-tie.” 



106 


Branded 


“Tia Chi,” groaned Chavez — “La senora -” 

“Well?” 

“ He’s trying to say, ‘Aunt Ki,’ ” explained Hooch. 
“Your uncle let us out. She took us on. Remem¬ 
bers how well we rode for her before.” 

“ What’s that to do with your trying to rope me ? ” 

“Honest, kid, we didn’t aim to do you no harm. 
You got to own up we could’ve plunked you easy, 
’stead of using our ropes.” 

“ I’d as soon be shot as hanged.” 

“Lord, kid, we ain’t ijits. Aunt Ki didn’t offer 
a cent for you dead.” 

“ Which means, she wanted me roped alive. What 
for?” 

Hooch stared unblinkingly. 

“ I can’t right say. On’y she’s sore’s your uncle 
’bout you turning loose Splay Foot. My guess is 
she wants to put you on that there wolf chain and 
wear out a quirt or two on your hide.” 

The light went out of Joe’s face. Aunt Ki was the 
kind to shoot, not to quirt an enemy. Mary had 
kept the ancient six-shooter from blazing loose. 
Mary believed he had tortured the she-wolf. Of 
course this scheme to take him alive and chain him 
up in place of Splay Foot was hers. She did not 
want him killed. Her wish was to see him degraded 
— chained to a dog kennel! 

Bitter despair again seized him—sickened his 
spirit. If only Mary had let her grandmother shoot! 
But he was not going to weaken before this pair of 
sneaky coyotes. Without for an instant turning his 




The Bustlers 


107 


steady gaze from the rustlers, he jerked the loose 
end of the reata to him and started to back his mare. 

“Always did covet your hair rope, Mex,” he said. 
“Muchas gracias for the gifto. Now, both you 
birds, trot for home and mother — No, keep’em 
skyed, and don’t look back. ’Twon’t be healthy.” 

The balked badmen rode around the thicket and 
jogged towards the feed sheds, Chavez swaying in 
his saddle. His wound was only through the flesh, 
but he had already lost enough blood to make him 
dizzy. Hooch wisely kept both hands high and his 
face to front. 

Around the end of the sheds ran a golden-haired 
figure. Joe whirled his mare and loped away south¬ 
ward. 



CHAPTER X 


REBELLION 



AYLOR BRENT always ate with his men. 


JL This was not due to sociability on his part. 
Business required his presence. He had to make sure 
that neither his cook nor his punchers wasted any 


food, 


He was seated at the supper table, in the dirty, 
smelly, lamp-lit kitchen, when Joe slouched through 
the open doorway, out of the darkening twilight. 
Parlen muttered something to his uncle. Brent 
turned to stare at the new arrival, his eyes at their 
stoniest. 

Joe had not stopped to wash, nor even to brush 
the dust off his shirt and overalls. His hat was still 
on his head. Most offensive of all, he still had on 
his cartridge belt with the holstered pistol. 

Brent’s harsh demand fixed every eye upon his 
younger nephew: 

“Where’s that wolf scalp?” 

“Taking a pasear in the Yamparos, at last ac¬ 
counts,” drawled Joe. 

“ Enough of that, young man. I told you not to 
come back without the scalp of that she-devil.” 

“ This is another kind of come-back,” explained 
Joe. “Just stopped by to hand you my compli¬ 
ments.” 


108 


Rebellion 


109 


“ Run out, of food, you mean. Been gluttonizing. 
I gave you enough rations for double this time.” 

Joe’s voice again drawled into banter: 

“No, honest, Uncle Lor, I didn’t get a chance to 
wolf the chuck. ’Twasn’t my fault. What you 
gave me was too much alive. First night out the 
weevils and maggots took a mean ’vantage of me. 
They done et through the pack strings and run off 
with the better half of my rations. T’other half was 
so bad they had to pass it up.” 

Brent’s face went white. 

“You lying whelp! You’ll find your own food 
from now on.” 

“Thanks — thanks awfully,” mocked Joe. “That 
lets me out of evil association with Beelzebub, Prince 
of Flies — and Maggots. Muchas gracias, senor — 
as the greaser member of your hired rustler pair 
would say.” 

The owner of the Circle B half rose from his chair, 
for once stung out of his stony restraint. 

“ What’s that ? 4 Hired rustlers ! ’ ” 

“Your charming pair of iron artists, Mex and 
Hooch.” 

44 Them ? ” Brent settled back into his chair. 44 1 
discharged both those scoundrels two days after you 
left.” 

Joe grinned tauntingly and looked around the 
table at the interrupted eaters. Fie had never been 
in a more reckless mood. 

44 Howdy, boys,” he greeted as if he had just 
stepped in. 44 Watch out you don’t take too big 




110 


Branded 


bites, Swede. You’ll get docked for excess feed — 
No, Curley; no plate for me, thanks. Didn’t you 
bear the boss bar me from the trough? ’Lo, Limpy. 
Y’ought to’ve trailed with me. Ran into ail kinds 
of sign — wolf, coyote and skunk.” 

With the last word Joe looked towards the head 
of the table. 

“Yeah, I started to trail a lobo, and ran ’cross a 
pair of coyotes — which the same brought me in 
scenting distance of one or more skunks. How about 
it, Pari ? Was it you or Uncle Lor, or both of you, 
that discharged Hooch and Mex, with orders to ride 
for the Seven Up but use a Circle B iron ? ” 

Brent’s rage burst the ice. 

“You crazy liar! You’re already out of my will. 
I’ll tan your hide within an inch of your life, and 
kick you off my range! ” 

The furious cowman started to rush like a mad 
bull. Out flipped Joe’s pistol. 

“Whoa! Back up!” he warned. “So — that’s 
wise. I’d just as lief pop a skunk as a rattler. 
You’ve no call to slaver — yet. I didn’t call you 
anything. All I did was inquire. Why don’t you 
answer? Gone dumb, have you? Refuse to incrimi¬ 
nate yourself. Come to think, I asked Pari first. 
He hasn’t told the interested assemblage if it was he 
or honest Taylor Brent who put Hooch and Mex up 
to rustling Aunt Ki’s calves.” 

Parlen made a very effective show of indignant 
amazement. 

“Me? W 7 hy should I want to hire any rustlers?” 



Rebellion 


111 


“Think you can do your own stealing, do you? 
Well, that leaves it up to Uncle Lor.” 

“Are you gone clean dotty, Joe? Uncle Lor isn’t 
crazy. He’d not risk playing into Aunt Ki’s hands. 
If that pair of coyotes are rustling, it’s all on their 
own hook.” 

Joe fired his double charge of buckshot. 

“ Tell that to the jury — you and Uncle Lor. One 
or t’other of you goes to the pen — unless it’s both. 
Your hired men are using a Circle B iron. I went 
and tattled to Aunt Ki. But maybe you can run 
off or brand-blot all the mamas of the calves before 
the round-up.” 

Brent’s eyes had again gone glassy. He spoke 
without a trace of emotion: 

“You peddled this lie to Kiowa Orton?” 

“ She was almost as grateful as you. Called me 
the same pet name. That doesn’t take the Circle B 
off her calves. If only I’d known, I’d have been glad 
to tell her which of you two it was that hired the 
branders. That’s how much I love any so-called man 
who’ll rustle from a poor, lone, helpless old lady.” 

The raillery goaded Parlen out of his cautious si¬ 
lence. 

“You did the branding yourself — you, not 
Hooch and Mex. You did it to hit back at Uncle 
Lor for cutting you out of his will. You did it to 
throw suspicion of rustling on him. You thought 
folks would blame him, because he’s the only one who 
could profit by the use of his brand.” 

Brent, seized upon this logical explanation. 




112 


Branded 


“ So that’s it. You slick rattler! Trying to in¬ 
criminate me, eh? I’ll not quirt you. I’ll send you 
to the pen. Take him, boys.” 

“Easy, easy,” advised Joe, his pistol swinging up. 
“ First man makes a move, gets his. Better cancel 
that order, Uncle Lor. I’m feeling sort of careless. 
I’d just as lief as not cash in my chips. But if any¬ 
body starts the fireworks, I figure on getting you and 
Pari before I get mine.” 

The meanness of Brent had attracted to his 
employ several men no less mean than himself, but 
of the lickspittle variety. They hated Joe because 
he was not like themselves and because he was the 
under dog. To curry favor with their boss by beat¬ 
ing or shooting the young man would have given 
them double pleasure. Only, like the others, they 
knew his quickness with a pistol, and they could see 
the reckless look in his eyes. 

Old Limpy broke the deathlike hush that had 
fallen upon the room. 

“ Looks like your move, kid. You best hit out for 
Arizony. Thay’s chances down thataway for a right 
smart rider — still real old-time open range in spots. 
Go on, now, kid. You don’t want to hurt nobody — 
you know you don’t.” 

“ I’m not so sure,” muttered Joe. 

Yet the soothing voice of his old friend somehow 
quieted the torment of his despair. He was not 
alone in the world. At least one real friend had 
thought for his good .... and it was true he did 
not wish to hurt anyone — at least not by shooting. 



Rebellion 


113 


“All right, Limpy. I’ll go,” he said. “There’s 
not room enough in the Yamparo country for me and 
the man who cheated my father, the man who’s now 
scheming to ruin old Aunt Ki by buying her leased 
school hay land.” 

Brent stared. 

“ Who told you that P ” 

“Guess. There’s only one, isn’t there, who’s apt 
to know about your sneaky schemes ? ” 

With this parting trouble-maker for Parlen, Joe 
stepped backwards through the doorway and disap¬ 
peared in the darkness. 

For a long moment all continued to sit still. They 
had no means of knowing whether Joe had gone off 
or was lurking outside. The men began to mutter 
comments, and returned to the attack on their food. 

Brent spoke stonily to Parlen: 

“ Come into the office.” 

Parlen took down a lantern and lighted his uncle 
through the inner doorway. The outer walls of the 
ranch-house were made of logs, but the inside was 
partitioned off with flimsy ceiling board. Some of 
the men were not above listening to the voices that 
came from Brent’s bedroom-office. They heard only 
the unexcited murmuring of words too low-pitched to 
be made out by the keenest ears. 

The quick eaters were leaving the table to go out 
to the bunk-house when Parlen came back and sat 
down to his unfinished supper. He dallied with his 
plum duff as if he had lost his appetite, but there 
was a cold smile on his lips. 



114 


Branded 


“The stuff is sourer than ever,” he muttered to 
slow-eating half-toothless Limpy. “Joe must have 
taken a look at it. Good thing you got him to go. 
He sure was aching to drill Uncle Lor. Can’t say 
I blame him, after the way Uncle Lor left him out 
of the new will — breaking his promise to leave Joe 
half his brand.” 

“Pretty soft for you,” grumbled Limpy. “The 
kid gets throwed, and you’ll get the whole shooting 
match. For two bits I’d light out after him with 
Swede, so’s you wouldn’t have no witnesses to prove 
your dadghasted will.” 

“Why jump on me?” mildly remonstrated Par- 
len. “Of course you’ve always liked Joe best. But 
haven’t we been friends? I’d be glad to go havvers 
with Joe, and make you foreman, if— But that’s 
just talk. Uncle Lor is apt to live long enough to 
see us both under the sod.” 

“ He is,” agreed the old puncher. “ He shore is — 
barring pizen chuck and lead.” 

“No danger of lead, now that Joe has cleared 
out,” said Parlen. 

He yawned, shoved his half-eaten plum duff from 
him, and looked at the old watch that he had bought 
cheap in town from a poker “busted” cowboy. 

“Eight o’clock. Wondered why I was so sleepy. 
Time to turn in.” 

He yawned again and went into his bedroom with¬ 
out a light. Limpy hear the screak of the broken 
springs on the young man’s cot. 

Curley, the cook, had washed most of the supper 



Eebellion 


115 


dishes. He left them to dry and headed for the 
bunk-house. Limpy hobbled out after him, but cir¬ 
cled in the opposite direction, around the far side of 
the house. He had an uneasy feeling that Joe might 
still be hanging about the ranch. But he saw no 
trace of him. Passing the lighted window of Brent’s 
room he peered through the dirty glass. His boss 
sat at a small table, intently checking over items in 
his account book. 

That he had wound up years of mistreatment by 
casting off his sister’s son mattered nothing to Tay¬ 
lor Brent. He was enjoying his one great pleasure 
in life — feeling the strong yellow pulse of his 
pocketbook-heart. 



CHAPTER XI 


SOME SLICK SNAKE 

A T THE dawn breakfast Limpy concluded that 
Brent must have kept figuring his profits 
until very late in the night. As a rule, the cowman 
was first man in the kitchen after Curley. This 
morning the most laggard of the punchers reached 
the table, and still the boss did not appear. 

Parlen came in, yawning. He nodded sleepily 
to Limpy, wound his watch, and went out to wash. 
When he returned, breakfast was well under way. 
Yet his uncle’s seat still had no occupant. He looked 
at it, hesitated, and sat down. As he started to saw 
at his fat salt pork, a Mexican with a bandaged right 
arm slid in past the half-closed outer door. He was 
followed by a lanky, red-nosed American. 

“ Buenos dias, senors greeted the leader. 

(i Hell-o,” sang out Limpy. “ I’ll be gosh-danged 
if ’ tain’t our admire-for-to-lose friends, Mex and 
Hooch. You fellers sure got your nerve with you, 
turning up ag’in after the way the boss sent you 
packing. ’Smatter, Mex? Looks sort of like you 
run into a hunk of lead.” 

Hooch shoved himself and his Mexican mate into 
places near the foot of the table. 

Where’s Mr. Brent? We come to tell him some¬ 
thing he ought to know. ’Blige us, Curley, by slam- 
116 


Some Slick Snake 


117 


ming on some jour chuck and slumgullion. Mex is 
’most all in. We should ought to’ve got here last 
night, but he couldn’t make it.” 

“Who shot him?” demanded Parlen. 44 What’s 
jour business, anjhow?” 

The lankj man paused to gulp the scalding hot 
cup of black coffee that was slammed down before 
him bj the cook. 

44 Uh!” he grunted. 44 You sure am some hot 
coffee boiler, Curlej. Whj, ’bout our business, 
Mister Pari, it ain’t no secret. We done got on to 
ride for the Seven Up. You-all know Mex can out- 
track a ’Pache. Well, a rustler’s been monkejing 
with the Seven Up calves. Aunt Ki ordered us to 
go get him. We ain’t looking for no trouble. We 
just followed the trail here. Looks like the rustler’s 
trjing to throw dirt on jour uncle. He used a 
Circle B iron.” 

44 He did?” exclaimed Parlen. 44 Who is it? Do 
jou know him ? ” 

44 Not him, but them, Pari,” cut in old Limpj. 
44 The slick snakes — trjing to saddle it on the kid! 
He beat jou to it, Hooch. We got the facts. If 
jou two nosej skunks trailed a rustler here, ’twas 
one of jou following t’other.” 

Hooch discreetlj held fast to his knife and spoon 
and kept his hands above the level of the table. He 
knew he was quicker on the draw than the old top- 
rider, but the time was not ripe for fireworks. 

44 Aw, give a feller a chance to make good on the 
real facts,” he appealed. 44 We caught him with his 



118 


Branded 


iron hot. Tried to take him alive, so’s he’d have to 
own np he wasn’t using the Circle B by his uncle’s 
orders.” 

“You did?” queried Parlen. 

“Yes, sir. We sneaked up on him and throwed. 
Mex noosed him. But he was too quick for us. 
Busted Mex’s arm and had me covered ’fore I could 
draw. You must ’a’ saw Mex’s hair reata on the 
kid’s saddle. He done stole it.” 

“Always did think that was how Mex got that 
there hair rope,” put in Limpy. 

Parlen spoke with authority. 

“ Quit your scratching, Limpy. This is a matter 
for Uncle Lor to pass on. Go tell him.” 

“ Scuse me. I got to have time to chew. Swede, 
you roll out the boss. You ain’t got no nerves that 
mind being cussed.” 

With plainly evident reluctance, the big towhead 
rose and scuffled into the front part of the house. 
The knob of Brent’s bedroom-office door rattled. 
Parlen bent forward over his plate. Through the 
thin partition rumbled Swede’s gruff voice: 

boss, ’scuse me, but them there lying coy¬ 
otes -” 

The words chopped off into abrupt silence. Then 
heavy boots trod the creaking floor boards back to 
the kitchen partition. Swede swung back into the 
kitchen, his pistol drawn. He leveled it at the 
visitors. 

“ Throw up! ” he roared. “ Grab ’em, boys.” 

Hooch’s hands shot upwards, and Mex’s unin- 




Some Slick Snake 


119 


jured arm followed suit. But both men stared as 
if utterly amazed. 

44 Hu-what you mean ? ” Hooch stuttered. 44 Huh- 
huh— he didn’t tell you to-” 

44 Shut up, you! ” shouted Swede. 44 Get a couple 
ropes, boys. They got Mr. Brent. He’s sitting 
there — bullet clean through his head.” 

In an instant the visitors were jammed in a mass 
of clutching, striking, cursing punchers. Reeling 
from blows on his red nose and ear, Hooch howled at 
the top of his voice: 

44 Pari! Call ’em off — call ’em off, or I’ll — Ow! ” 

A smash on the chin cut short the threat. But 
Parlen at last managed to shout down the yells and 
curses of the little mob. 

44 Stop it! stop it, boys ! Leave ’em alone! Get 
their guns and stand clear. Swede — Bill—Curley, 
hold ’em. That’s it. If Uncle Lor is shot, I’m boss 
here. Limpy, you come in and look. We want some 
proof before we string up anybody.” 

Limpy had kept out of the rush. He was already 
at the inner door. Parlen followed him to the open 
doorway of the office. 

Taylor Brent sat at the table almost exactly as 
Limpy had seen him through the window the night 
before. The only difference was that his head had 
sagged down on his chest. The steel-j acketed bullet 
had drilled clean through, from back of the right 
ear to the left temple. 

Parlen thrust his hand over Limpy’s shoulder to 
point at the little hole in the window pane. 




120 


Branded 


“ Get the size of that,” he ordered. “ It will tell 
us the caliber of the killer’s rifle.” 

Limpy sidled around the ghastly figure at the 
table to look close at the bullet hole in the window 
glass. Behind him Parlen stepped quickly to the 
table. Between the lax fingers of the murdered man 
lay a pen. He had pushed his account bobk aside 
and was writing on a sheet of stiff letter paper when 
the assassin’s bullet cut short all his mean and grasp¬ 
ing schemes. 

Paper, table and account book were all splotched 
with blackening crimson. But part of the writing 
was still readable. As Parlen’s eyes fell upon the 
words, “Last Will of—” he reached out and flipped 
the paper face down on the far side of the table. 

“What caliber?” he demanded. 

The old top-rider faced about, with a glimmer of 
anxiety behind his show of unconcern. 

“It’s a thirty-two.” 

“Same as Joe’s,” muttered Parlen. 

“Sure, and yourn.” 

Parlen’s thin lip curled. 

“Bah! We’ll see if anybody heard 1 the shot. 
You know he has a Maxim silencer. I haven’t. Be¬ 
sides, you know I had no cause to do this, and Joe 
did, and you know I was in bed asleep.” 

“We-ell, I heard you turn in.” 

“Which chokes off any more fool blatting about 
me. Now, about Hooch and Mex. Their rifles are 
thirty-eights. That lets them out. Hop lively.” 

Back in the kitchen, Parlen got in first word. 



Some Slick Snake 


121 


“ Limpy says it was a thirty-two, same as my rifle 
and Joe’s. You know what Mex and Hooch pack. 
Give ’em back their pistols. The shot was fired early 
last night. Blood is nearly black. Any you boys 
hear the shot?” 

The men stared at one another inquiringly. None 
answered. Parlen tightened his lips. 

“I hate to say it, but we’ve got to face the facts, 
boys. You all know he has a Maxim silencer for 
his rifle. I haven’t. For another thing, I’ve stood 
in thick with, Uncle Lor ever since I came back from 
the Seven Up. But Joe — well, no need to tell you 
how sore he was at Uncle Lor. That cutting him 
out of the will was cause enough. Last night all of 
you heard him threaten to shoot.” 

“Lord, what we waiting for?” cried one of the 
men who particularly disliked Joe. “Loan Mex a 
fresh cayuse. He’ll lead us to the bloody ’sassin.” 

Owing to his age and lameness, Limpy tail-ended 
the rush to the horse corral. By the time he was 
ready to swing his rope, the only horses left for his 
choice were a slow old buckskin and the tired bron¬ 
chos of Hooch and Mex. He saddled the buckskin. 

Mex had already picked up the trail of Joe’s mare. 
It led south, straight across country, and was so 
plainly marked in the dry, sandy thin-sodded soil 
that the expert tracker followed it at a gallop. 

The prints of the mare’s hoofs showed that for 
a short time her rider had kept her at a lope. Then, 
as if reckless of pursuit, he had slackened the pace 
to a walk. Hooch, riding closest to his Mexican 




Branded 


122 


amigo , called the good news to the others. 

Some of the hotheads jelled for Chavez to use 
quirt and spur. But Parlen was now owner of the 
Circle B, and he voiced the sound judgment of cool- 
headed foresight. 

“We’ll hold to a lope, boys. Don’t want to blow 
our horses. If we do, he’ll have a chance to out-run 
us when we jump him.” 

The forward-spurring men dropped back to their 
places behind the leaders. Though they cursed with 
impatience, they knew that their young boss was 
right. They also knew that none of them was as 
good a tracker as Chavez. If they rushed ahead, 
they might blot out the trail for their Mexican 
bloodhound, lose it themselves, and mislead him away 
from it. 

The wild race from the ranch had left Limpy al¬ 
most a mile behind. He continued to ply the buck¬ 
skin with quirt and spur until he saw how fast he 
was closing the gap between himself and the bunch. 
Easy enough for a man of his long experience to 
guess the reason. He at once allowed the buckskin 
to slow into a lope. 

The leaders were now only half a mile ahead. As 
long as they did not quicken the pace, the buckskin 
could lope along all day without losing any more dis¬ 
tance. But to rush up on the bunch might over¬ 
strain the old broncho, or start the rest of the party 
off again on a dead run. Limpy was satisfied to let 
well enough alone. 

Up in the lead Parlen and Hooch kept exchanging 



Some Slick Snake 


123 


calculations based on facts and probabilities. 
Though Joe had continued at a walk, he had an 
all-night start of the pursuers. But he seemed: to 
have been so indifferent to the danger of pursuit 
that he might have stopped at sun-up to eat. 

He had gibed his uncle about having an empty 
food sack. Perhaps he had lied. If not, the sage¬ 
brush was alive with jackrabbits and cottontails and 
sage hens. No need for him to have gone without 
breakfast. Allowing a half hour stop for the meal, 
and no faster pace than a jog, he would not be far 
beyond the south drift fence of the Circle B. The 
trackers could expect to overtake him about noon. 

Every one of the tough range horses was well able 
to hold to a steady lope half a day, and then wind 
up with a long race at top speed. But the best plan 
would be to sight the fugitive before he had become 
aware of his pursuers. It would then be easy to 
circle around and head him off. The south end of 
the Circle B range and the country beyond was 
rolling and dotted with patches of scrub. 

The trail led on straight south. Parlen recalled 
that old Limpy had advised his pet to head for Ari¬ 
zona. The information won a leer of understanding 
from Hooch. 

“ He’s striking for the high pass in the main 
range. Don’t savvy, though, him moseying along 
at a walk. Shore is a nervy kid.” 

“Too nervy,” said Parlen. “He’s liable to try 
to cut loose at the whole bunch of us; you and me 
and Mex first, for choice.” 



Branded 


124 


The lanky man considered this, looking down his 
red nose. 

“Huh. Mebbeso I get you, and mebbeso I don’t. 
Sabe Dios. Aunt Ki offered two hundred for him 
&— alive.” 

Parlen glanced back to make sure no one else was 
within hearing. He spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact 
tone: 

“I’ll make it three, in addition to what’s already 
coming to you. You have the right to defend your¬ 
self if he threatens to draw. Look at your side¬ 
kick’s arm. Besides, he’s wanted for murder.” 

“Three hundred? It’s a go,” agreed Hooch, 
“He’s a desp’rit desperado. He’s a red-handed 
’sassin. On’y thing, how ’bout him walking off this- 
away? ’Twon’t look much like murder to a jury.” 

“That’s easy,” said Parlen. “He knew Limpy 
was the only good tracker on the Circle B. Counted 
on him to lead us off the wrong way. He thought 
he had laid up Mex; did not figure on being trailed 
by the best tracker north of the Apache country.” 

Hooch could not hold in his admiration. 

“Lord, but you’re some slick snake!” 

Parlen met this with eyes as glassy, if not as cold, 
as had been his uncle’s when angered. 

“ I can take care of myself. You can show no 
proof or motive against me. But a jury would 
send you and Mex to the pen just on what Joe 
charged you with last night. Best thing for you is 
to close his mouth. You’ll then get your money and 
skip the Yamparo country for keeps.” 




Some Slick Snake 


125 


The red-nosed man paused only to shoot out a 
stream of tobacco juice that had blocked his utter¬ 
ance. 

“You done said a mouthful, Pari! Keeps it am. 
Me and Mex ain’t hankering to bed down with no 
rattlesnake.” 

Whether or not this was meant as a compliment, 
Parlen rightly took it for a sincere expression of 
agreement. He had convinced the badman that he 
was by far the more deadly. The fellow would clear 
out with his Mexican side-kick and never head back 
to the Yamparos. 

Hooch avoided the glassy stare of his riding mate 
and returned to his scrutiny of the country ahead. 

The trackers had already covered many miles from 
the ranch-house. Not long after mid-morning the 
steady lope of their horses brought them within sight 
of the Circle B’s south drift fence. At an order 
from Parlen, big Swede galloped ahead to cut the 
wires. The party loped through the gap and slowed 
to a jog up the stiff ridge on the far side of the 
fence. 

Limpy, still lagging half a mile in the rear, gained 
quite a little before the party reached the round 
of the ridge. He kept his far-sighted old eyes fixed 
upon them. He knew that the ridge crest gave a 
long view southwards. 

As the leaders of the party neared the top he saw 
them duck down and wheel back. A moment later 
the bunch scattered to right and left. Limpy slung 
his spurs into the old buckskin. 



CHAPTER XII 


THE NECKTIE PARTY 

W HEN the bunch jogged up over the round 
of the ridge, Mex had continued to keep his 
gaze on the trail close ahead. But Hooch had in¬ 
stantly glanced up and down the dry creek bed at 
the foot of the south slope. 

Just above the lower bend was a green-scummed 
waterhole. Close beyond the clump of small cotton¬ 
woods that bordered the pool Hooch saw a picketed 
bay mare. His sharp warning brought the heads of 
his companions low and their horses around in a 
quick backward twist. 

Parlen gave his orders with cool authority. 

“ Circle, boys. He’s my cousin, but don’t forget 
he’s a, dead shot. Keep behind cover and close in 
quiet. Maybe we can get the drop on him.” 

Even the hotheads saw the good sense of this. 
They raced both ways along the near slope of the 
ridge, but took the crest with great caution. Joe 
Gale was as handy with a rifle as with a pistol. 

Hooch and Parlen, with Chavez now following, 
sidled along to where they could cross over and work 
down behind a screen of chaparral. To give the 
others time to flank the cottonwoods, they crept 
slowly around the border of the dense thicket. But 
the distance down to the waterhole was so short that 


126 


The Necktie Party 


127 


Hooch soon made out the motionless form that lay 
under the trees. 

64 There he is! ” he whispered. 44 ’Sleep or sham¬ 
ming. The nervy cuss ! Hung up his saddle— no, it’s 
a saddle of ven’son. C’mon. It’s in short range. 
We can get the drop on him.” 

Parlen slipped off his horse to follow, but carefully 
kept behind the leader. Chavez, having a disabled 
gun arm, excusably held back. Hooch was afraid 
of no man — if he could get the drop on him. The 
man under the trees continued to lie motionless. 
From the lower corner of the chaparral Hooch was 
within short pistol range. 

He covered the outstretched man with his revolver, 
and advanced without waiting for the circling riders 
to close in. Parlen and Mex Chavez followed at his 
heels. All three walked quickly but lightly. Still 
the man under the cottonwoods did not stir. Hooch 
shifted sideways until he could see the sleeper’s re¬ 
laxed face. 

Sight of their leaders closing in afoot started the 
encircling riders on a wild charge for the cotton¬ 
woods. Parlen uttered a sharp order. Hooch 
sprang at the sleeper and kicked him in the side. 

Roused from his slumber to sudden alertness, Joe 
half turned to jump to his feet. The butt of Hooch’s 
heavy six-shooter crashed on the back of his head. 
As Joe went down, Hooch snatched his pistol from 
its holster. 

The other men jumped off their horses and rushed 
in, yelling and flourishing their pistols. Dazed by 



128 


Branded 


the blow on his head, Joe staggered to his feet. Big 
Swede out-jumped the bunch. He clutched the reel¬ 
ing boy fast in his long arms. 

“ Shy off,” he shouted. “ I got him.” 

But more than one of the men wanted the satis¬ 
faction of beating the prisoner. Parlen flung him¬ 
self between them and his cousin. For a few mo¬ 
ments he was caught fast with Swede and Joe in 
the j am of yelling attackers. 

“ Back up ! ” he shouted. “ You’re hitting me, you 
jack burros. Back up. So. Now hold your horses. 
Hooch has his gun, but he may have another. You, 
Bill, frisk him.” 

Bill had once served as deputy sheriff. He ran 
expert hands over the body of the prisoner. He 
found no concealed pistol. But from one of the 
overall pockets his clutching fingers drew a little 
drum-like piece of metal — the Maxim silencer. Par¬ 
len looked from it to the wolfish faces of his men. 

“You see, boys. That’s why no one heard the 
shot. But he’s my cousin. I’ve got to pull out of 
this. It’s up to you.” 

“Hold on,” growled Swede. “The kid’s a Circle 
B man. He gets a jury trial.” 

Parlen did not reply. He was hurrying back up- 
slope to his horse. Swede released one arm from 
about Joe to clutch at his pistol. But another man 
was already snatching the weapon from its holster. 
Half a dozen muzzles thrust into the face of the bis: 
towhead or prodded him in the back. Joe was torn 
out of his grasp and lashed hand and foot. 



The Necktie Party 


129 


A gloating cry from Chavez brought Hooch’s red¬ 
eyed gaze around from the still-dazed prisoner to 
the hanging saddle of deer meat. Joe had picketed 
his mare with his own rope and used the horsehair 
reata to suspend his game from a limb. The Mexi¬ 
can started to lower the meat. Hooch saw the point. 

“ Hey, fellers,” he yelled. “ Me and Mex has got 
a gents’ furniture store. Here’s the necktie. Fetch 
on the gent.” 

The sally won a rqar of laughter from the bunch. 
Rough hands dragged Joe around to the dangling 
venison and jerked him to his feet. Fie swayed, still 
giddy from that savage blow of Hooch’s gun butt. 

“Lookut the yeller cur wobble,” jeered Bill. 

The taunt stung Joe out of his daze. He stiffened. 
His ruddy brown eyes flashed. 

“What d’you think you’re doing, you sneaking 
coyotes?” he demanded. “You’ve no call to haze 
me. I’m off the Circle B — clean off.” 

“Shore — and you’ll be off this here range, too, 
may pronto retorted Bill, with an upward jerk of 
his thumb that made the joke plain to his fellows. 

Their mirth over this stroke of subtle wit was 
added to by another quirk of Hooch’s store-keeper 
humor. He had freed the noose of the reata from 
the saddle of venison. 

“Pleasure yourself to step round thisaway, kid. 
Here’s the purtiest necktie you ever seen. Reg’lar 
style for gents as is too handy with lead.” 

Joe turned and for the first time perceived the 
real intent of the mob. He had thought they had 



130 


Branded 


trailed him merely to vent their meanness in a fare¬ 
well beating. He stiffened still more and stared 
around from man to man. 

Swede stood a few feet away, helpless to interfere. 
But Joe did not see the pistol with which one of the 
lynchers was prodding his friend in the back. 

44 You too, Swede!” he cried. 44 1 can savvy how 
you and the bunch are all in cahoots with Uncle Lor 
and Pari and Hooch and Mex, rustling Aunt Ki’s 
calves. But I never thought a side-kick like you 
would help string me up for putting the old lady 
wise.” 

Though Swede’s hard-set face did not change, the 
cords of his neck twitched. 

44 1 got a gun muzzle boring into my back, kid,” 
he muttered. 44 Wanted you should have a jury trial. 
The boys don’t agree. It’s on you, I don’t blame 
you a little bit for plugging the old man. On’y you 
should’ve hit the high places, ’stead of loafing along 
all night.” 

Joe’s eyes widened. 

44 What d’you mean? 4 Plugging the old man!’ 
What’s the j oke ? ” 

Hooch had not forgotten Parlen’s suggestions. 

44 The joke’s on you, kid, guessing you’d laid up 
Mex, so’s he couldn’t track you. That’s why you 
moseyed off like you was taking a pasear. Figgered 
Limpy’d lead us t’other way and get us all balled up 
in the Yamparos, whiles you walked off ’cross the 
sierra. You knowed Mex can track like a ’Pache, 
on’y you figgered you’d laid him out.” 




The Necktie Party 


131 


The gibes were wasted. Joe was gazing into the 
stern faces of his other captors. 

“I see you’re going to make it your privilege to 
string me up, even if I don’t agree. Give me my 
gun, and I’ll stand up to the whole bunch of you. 
But of course I can’t expect any fair play or decency 
from a pack of skunks that’ll rustle off an old lady 
and a girl.” 

44 Choke his blatt! ” shouted Bill, righteously in¬ 
dignant. 44 You, Hooch, sling us that rope.” 

Hooch flung the noose of the horsehair reata over 
the head of the prisoner. Bill jerked it tight around 
his neck. All the other men, except Swede’s guard, 
ran to haul on the loose end of the rope. It jerked 
tight over the stout cottonwood branch, fifteen feet 
up. The rope pullers heaved. Joe was hoisted up 
on his toes — off his feet. He swung clear of the 
ground, choking. His face crimsoned — purpled. 
He was fast strangling to death. 

A pistol muzzle jabbed into the back of the man 
whose pistol muzzle was against Swede’s back. 

44 Mum,” warned the cracked voice of Limpy 
Smith. 44 Pass your gun to Swede — pronto /” 

The dumfounded guard thrust his pistol into 
Swede’s backward reaching hand and obeyed Limpy’s 
urgent order to jump in front of them. Time was 
short. Joe was now swinging three feet off the 
ground and almost gone. His face had begun to 
blacken. 

Limpy swung up two pistols, his own and Parlen’s. 

44 Leggo! ” he yelled. 44 Hands up! ” 



132 


Branded 


His shot at the rope failed to cut it, but gave a 
kick to his command. The sudden release of the 
rope dropped the victim on the dusty ground. More 
or less rapidly the bunch put up their hands at 
sight of Limpy and Swede advancing upon them be¬ 
hind the disarmed guard. 

“ Line up,” ordered Limpy. 44 Face the crik. You, 
Hooch, yank that noose offen the kid.” 

The dry tone of his cracked voice meant business. 
Again came quick obedience. At another command 
from the old top-rider, Swede caught up one of Joe’s 
blankets and went down the line, collecting all pistols. 

44 Keno!” approved Limpy. 44 Now, you boys, 
back up to the waterhole. Ride herd on ’em, Swede.” 

As the old man gave the command, he bent over 
Joe to cut the hogging-strings that bound his arms 
and legs. Joe’s face was still purple, but he had not 
been quite strangled. Lie was beginning to gasp. 
Limpy brought a hatful of water and dashed it into 
his young friend’s face. 

The shock quickened Joe’s return to consciousness. 
He gasped deeper and struggled up on his elbow. 
His bloodshot eyes stared vacantly at the old man. 
They brightened with recognition, only to cloud 
over with black despair. 

44 Limpy! Why’d you go and pull me — back? I 
was gone — rainbows — happy dreams. Now you 
. . . . back in hell!” 

44 Aw, forget it, kid. Them skunks just nachelly 
grabbed the chance to take out their cussedness on 
you. ’Twasn’t cause they blame you for plugging 



The Necktie Party 


183 


the boss. Don’t you fret ’bout that. Ain’t nobudy 
don’t know how mean he treated you. He on’y got 
what’s been coming to him for nigh on twenty year. 
Don’t you fret none ’bout giving him hisn.” 

Joe sat upright, his fingers on his rope-burned 
neck. 

“You baldfaced old liar! You’re bad as Swede — 
backing the gang. Y’don’t mean to tell me Uncle 
Lor’s been shot, really! ” 

The eye of Limpy that was of sight of the balked 
lynchers drew down in a knowing wink. 

“ That’s the ticket, kid. You don’t know nothing 
’bout no shooting. You was miles from the ranch. 
You come away slow, walked your mare all night. 
That’s your alibi. On’y trouble, nobudy heard the 
shot. Best cache that there silencer.” 

“They found it on me. Yet I—” Joe’s lips 
tightened. “But for you and Swede to believe I 
did it!” 

“ Shucks ! ” soothed Limpy. “Are you gone deef, 
kid? I told you not even that bunch of ornery 
cusses blame you a mite. On’y, course, thay’s plenty 
of folks’ll feel bound to get the noose on you. What 
say, me and Swede cut loose with you? We can leave 
the bunch afoot, but turn their hosses loose at the 
Broken Box ranch, ’fore we strike into the moun¬ 
tains. Easy ’nough to lose any trailers over ’cross 
the sierra.” 

The purple of Joe’s face had moderated into 
crimson. He got upon his feet, unsteady in body, 
but far from unsteady in mind. 



134 


Branded 


“You’re all right, Limpy. I take it back. Just 
the same, I’m no quitter. I didn’t shoot Uncle Lor. 
I didn’t know he’d been shot till Swede let out the 
secret. I’m not going to run away and leave folks 
to believe I did it. All I ask for is a fair trial in 
court.” 

Limpy’s grim mouth twisted. 

“You’re asking for the rope at the pen, kid, ’stead 
of here. They got a dead cinch on you. The hole 
in the winder was made by a thirty-two, and you 
just told me you was crazy ’nough to let ’em find 
your silencer on you.” 

Joe nodded. 

“Fool trick, wasn’t it? Well, if I’m cinched I’m 
cinched. Nobody is going to say I’m afraid to take 
my medicine. Go bring in my mare.” 

The old top-rider stifled a groan and obeyed. The 
kid always had been bullheaded. But at least he 
should have his wish for a court trial. No more at¬ 
tempts at a lynching. 

When the party mounted to take the back trail, 
Joe’s holster held his pistol. He swung in with 
Swede and Limpy behind the disarmed lynchers. 

Well up the ridge slope Bill, the foremost rider, 
saw a horse partly screened by the chaparral. 

“Hey, Limpy,” he sang out. “Here’s Parl’s 
roan. Didn’t hit for home afoot, did he?” 

“Cut him loose,” replied Limpy. 

Bill swung off and looked around into the opening 
of the pocket in the chaparral. Parlen lay beside 
his horse, neatly gagged with his own neckerchief 



The Necktie Party 


135 


and hog-tied. He had been so intent upon watching 
the gang lynch Joe that Limpy had ridden down 
from the ridge crest and taken him by surprise. 

While Bill freed his new boss he told him rather 
sheepishly how the old top-rider had got the drop on 
them all and turned loose the prisoner. Parlen 
quietly mounted and rode off at the head of the 
party, without a word of comment or a single glance 
back at his cousin. 

A little way beyond the Circle B drift fence Limpy 
ordered Swede to herd the disarmed men on to the 
ranch. He himself turned off with Joe and headed 
across country for the railroad. 




CHAPTER XIII 


KIOWA SHIFTS 

L ATE on the following afternoon Hooch Hug¬ 
gins and Mex Chavez jogged down the round¬ 
up road to the Seven Up ranch. 

Old Kiowa greeted them with sour disappointment. 
“You quitters! Let him get back to his hole, 
did you? Didn’t have nerve enough to yank him 
out of it! Went and let Lor Brent run you off! ” 
Chavez muttered a hasty, “Ave, Maria — salvar 
nos /” and crossed himself. Hooch squinted down 
his red nose. 

“ Brent he done stopped running off nobody, in¬ 
cluding calves what ain’t hisn.” 

“What’s that? You don’t mean-” 

“ Yep. He scratched the kid one too many. The 
kid got him, night ’fore last, from outside, through 
the winder.” 

Mary’s blue eyes went almost black. 

“Not Joe! He never could have — never — 
never ! 99 

“They got it on him, ma’am. Bullet was from 
his rifle. It’s a cinch. Mex tracked him for the 
Circle B’s. Some of the boys was so mad they 
strung him up — on’y Limpy had to horn in and 
spoil the fun. Him and the kid streaked for 
town, according to Swede. He says the kid was 
136 



Kiowa Shifts 


137 


aiming to give hisself up. I’m betting he turns up 
missing.” 

“How about Pari?” queried Kiowa. 

Hooch spat and ventured a half grin. 

“ The sorrowing new boss is heading for town with 
the corpse of his b’lov’d uncle — and his uncle’s will 
making him sole owner of the Circle B.” 

The old cow-woman cast an uneasy look at Mary. 
Parlen was now the richest stockgrower in the Yam- 
paro country. If only she could have foreseen this, 
she might have been less hasty in ordering him off 
the Seven Up. He had really wanted the girl. Per¬ 
haps, even now, she might be able to make up with 
him. 

As for Joe, the young fool certainly had done for 
himself. No danger after this of Mary ever con¬ 
sidering him. In snuffing out his uncle, he had abso¬ 
lutely killed every chance he otherwise might have 
had to regain his standing with the girl. Much as 
Brent had been hated, a man of his wealth would 
have to be properly avenged. The boy would get a 
life sentence, if not the noose. 

He certainly was all kinds of a fool. Why had he 
let himself get caught? And, when saved by Limpy 
from lynching, why had he not skipped the country ? 
Hooch might believe he was doing so now. But if 
Swede thought the boy had intended to give himself 
up, that was exactly what he would do. It was just 
like the bullheaded young fool. 

Old Kiowa pursed her wrinkled lips. 

“1 figger it’s time to haul out a load of supplies. 



138 


Branded 


We’ll start for town at daybreak, Mary. Hooch, 
you and Mex’ll help Rocker get things in shape for 
the round-up.” 

Chavez scratched his fast-healing arm, shot a side- 
long glance at his American side-kick, and turned his 
shifty gaze on the horizon. Hooch met the old wom¬ 
an’s hawk stare with a look of bland, unblinking 
servility. 

“Yes’um. You can count on us doing things up 
in pink ribbons, Aunt Ki. How ’bout that two hun¬ 
dred? If the kid has went and put his neck in the 
noose ag’in, seems like me and Mex should ought to 
come in for what you done promised.” 

“You haven’t delivered him to me.” 

“No’um. Just the same, we got the proof on him 
for rustling, and he knowed Mex was tracking him. 
He killed his uncle ’fore we got to the Circle B, ’cause 
Brent hadn’t nerve ’nough to back the kid and bluff 
us. The kid got him, and me and Mex got the kid — 
if he ain’t flew the coop. You wanted Brent, and 
you same as got him. Y’ought to pay me and Mex 
that two hundred.” 

“ Not ’less it comes out that the boy was rustling 
by his uncle’s orders. I didn’t want Lor Brent 
drilled. I wanted him branded.” 

The lanky man looked down his nose and smirked. 

“You’re the doc, ma’am. Me and Mex figger on 
getting from you all you owe us. Reckon we ain’t 
going to lose out on this deal.” 

“You’ll get what’s coming to you, no more, no 
less,” snapped Kiowa. 



Kiowa Shifts 


139 


“Yes’um. We shore will. ’Tain’t like we was 
dealing with Brent — nor Pari.” 

Kiowa frowned to hide her gratification that even 
such questionable characters as these unsavory drift¬ 
ers should rely on her sense of justice and fair deal¬ 
ing. She ordered them to grease the axles of the 
chuck-wagon and overhaul the harness, while Rocker 
brought in the best span of wagon-broke horses. 

In the red dawn, when she and Mary climbed up 
on the wagon seat, Chavez kept himself out of sight. 
But Hooch saw them off, with a cheerful, “ Adios , 
Miss Mary. Needn’t hurry back, Aunt Ki. Me and 
Mex’ll look after things o. k.” 

The old cow-woman nodded. After all, the fellow 
was a top-hand, and he had admitted that he and 
his Mexican partner knew when they were well off* 
The summer with Lor Brent had shown them how 
vastly more preferable was employment on the Seven 
Up. There was little now to do until the beef round¬ 
up. She could throw all range worries over her 
shoulder and turn her thoughts to the matter of 
Mary’s future. 

Of late the girl had been looking a bit peaked. 
There was a shadow back in her blue eyes. But that 
sad appealing look often got a girl’s rope on a man 
quicker than any smile. Perhaps after Parlen saw 
it he could be led to believe that Mary was pining 
for him. 

One thing certain: Mary was anxious to get to 
town. Though she said little about it, she drove as 
she had never driven before. Without at any time 



140 


Branded 


over-straining the team, she pushed them to their 
limit. Her grandmother gripped the bouncing 
wagon-seat and raised no objections. 

Instead of camping, as usual, several miles short 
of town, Mary kept on. The leg-weary horses jogged 
into Main Street two hours after nightfall. The 
little hotel was full. Kiowa had to ask hospitality 
from an old-time acquaintance. While she and Mary 
filled their hungry mouths, their night-gowned host¬ 
ess pumped gossip into their still more hungry ears. 

Had they heard about the killing of Taylor Brent 
by his younger nephew? Yes, the boy had given 
himself up. No, he had not confessed. He had .just 
ridden in and told the sheriff his uncle had been shot 
and some of the Circle B men accused him of doing 
it. 

No, Limpy Smith had not come in with the boy. 
He turned up with the Circle B bunch the next day. 
They had brought in the body of the murdered man 
and the window with the bullet hole and the boy’s rifle 
silencer. Yes, Parlen Brent was in charge of the 
party. Yes, he had already filed his uncle’s will. 
It gave him all the Circle B. 

The town was full of folks because Joe Gale had 
waived preliminary examination and was to be put 
on trial right away. The old jail was out of repair. 
Easy enough to batter in the door, if the Circle B 
boys should take a notion to save the county court 
expenses. Besides, everybody wanted to get the trial 
over with and the boy on his way to Canon City be¬ 
fore the round-up. 



Kiowa Shifts 


141 


Mary said nothing but stopped eating. Most of 
the night she lay wide awake. Towards morning, 
utterly worn out, she at last fell asleep. When 
Kiowa turned out, the dawn light was not too dim 
for her sharp eyes to see the lines of grief in the 
girl’s face. She felt the tear-wet pillow and left the 
room, bitterly determined. 

On her hasty sunrise walk towards the hotel she 
passed the postoffice. The postmaster, an old friend, 
obliged her with her mail — two weekly papers, a 
livestock journal, and an official letter from the 
State School Board. She opened the letter, read it 
through twice, and walked back, grim-eyed, to the 
house. 

At the unearthly late hour of eight, Mary shame¬ 
facedly came down from the attic guest-room. Her 
grandmother, gossiping in the kitchen with their 
hostess, met her with a smile. 

“’Sail right, Babe. Miz Gowan has kept yours 
nice and hot in the warming oven.” 

Tears blurred the girl’s heavy eyes. Not in many 
years had her grandmother spoken so tenderly or 
called her by that pet name. 

“ I thank you ever so much, Mrs. Gowan, but I 
don’t feel much like eating.” 

“Yes, you do,” contradicted her grandmother. 
“Pari Brent is stopping at the hotel. So are the 
Goodmorrow girls. You ain’t going to let him think 
you’re pining ’cause you missed hitching up with 
the owner of the biggest brand in the Yamparo coun¬ 
try, are you?” 



142 


Branded 


Mary winced as if lashed across the face with a 
quirt. Her cheeks went white, and as quickly flooded 
with scarlet. Her eyes flashed. 

“ That’s the ticket!” approved Kiowa. “No dy¬ 
ing dog ’bout you. We’ll show him. Climb out¬ 
side your chuck. We’ll be late.” 

The breakfast eaten by Mary would almost have 
satisfied her usual healthy young appetite. Kiowa 
promptly hurried her to the little town’s main cloth¬ 
ing store. The store had just received its small but 
select stock of goods for the fall trade with wealthy 
stock-growers’ wives and daughters. 

When Kiowa and Mary came out into Main Street, 
Mary was dressed no less stylishly than the Good- 
morrow girls, who had bought their costumes in New 
York. A few moments later Limpy and Swede left 
the store by the rear door. 

Parlen had escorted stately Mrs. Goodmorrow 
and her daughters to the court house. Kiowa and 
Mary, coming from the opposite direction, met them 
in front of the group of loungers on the court house 
steps. Kiowa greeted the snobbish matron with 
hearty cordiality. 

“ Well, well, howdy, Anniebella! Hardly would ’a’ 
knowed you, you’re getting so fat. My, how the 
years slide by! Seems no more’n yesterday when 
you used to cook for me, Anniebella. Yet look at 
these fine growed-up young ladies of yours. Just 
home from finishing school, I hear. Didn’t know 
’twas so healthy back East. Look at their rosy 
cheeks.” 



Kiowa Shifts 


143 


Stately Mrs, Goodmorrow fumbled for her gold 
lorgnette. The Misses Goodmorrow drew back from 
the impossible old cow-woman, noses up and cheeks 
flushing scarlet around the thickly laid-on rouge. 
They ignored Mary’s friendly smile and nod — but 
not her costume. Their critical eyes sought to find 
a flaw, and were grievously disappointed to dis¬ 
cover that the general effect was borne out by every 
artistic detail, from the modish hat to the real silk 
stockings and the very latest type of sandals. 

Parlen saw neither the details nor the critics. He 
was not even aware that Mary had dressed up in 
city clothes. He was only vaguely conscious of the 
general effect as the frame of her beauty. Great 
as had been his passion for her, he had never before 
fully realized the loveliness of her deep blue eyes 
and golden hair. The wildrose pink under the tan 
of her cheeks was real. 

Alongside her the finishing-school graduates, whom 
he had been regarding with great interest and re¬ 
spect, suddenly faded to painted dolls. What matter 
if their father owned the outfit next largest to his 
own? Mary’s hair was like a maze of pure gold 
threads. He wanted her. He must have her. His 
calculating eyes flamed with the volcanic upwelling 
of his desire. 

Kiowa was on the alert. From the instant Parlen 
fixed his gaze on Mary she had not missed the slight¬ 
est flicker of the changes that came over his face. 
Her sudden thrust pushed Mary past him and up 
the steps before the girl could turn from the Good- 



Branded 


144 


morrow girls and betray whatever feelings she might 
now have for the owner of the Circle B. 

Parlen did not wait to enter the court house with 
Mrs. Goodmorrow and her daughters. He followed 
close behind Mary. All the spectators’ seats in the 
little court room were occupied. Kiowa nodded to the 
young bank teller who sat in the middle of the front 
row. He looked at Mary, and at once rose to offer 
her his seat. Kiowa insisted that she accept the 
favor. 

“ Got to ’tend to some business, Babe,” she said. 
“ Can’t leave you standing here alone.” 

Mary became aware of Parlen at her elbow. She 
hastened to thank the bank teller and take the seat. 




CHAPTER XIV 


THE COURSE OF JUSTICE 

K IOWA left Parlen standing in the aisle and 
went back into the hall. Knots of people stood 
talking about the sensational murder and the killer’s 
small chance of escaping the penalty. 

The general sentiment seemed to be that the boy 
deserved hanging, less for what he had done than 
for what he had not done. Nobody mourned the 
passing of the coldest-blooded, meanest brand owner 
in the Yamparo country. Everybody knew how he 
had nagged and abused his younger nephew. But 
the young fool ought to have cleared out and saved 
the county the cost of trying him. 

With this Kiowa took occasion to differ bitterly. 
She shifted from group to group, letting drop hints 
that if she were on the jury, the murderer would get 
what he rightly deserved. She added, more guarded¬ 
ly, that she had reason to believe the murder might 
have been due to the boy’s rustling of her calves. 

Parlen had followed the old woman out into the 
hall, without, he believed, being seen by her. He 
trailed her from group to group, keeping out of her 
sight. The venom of her tongue and words in speak¬ 
ing about Joe soon convinced him that she was in 
deadly earnest. He slipped into the office of the dis¬ 
trict attorney. 


145 


146 


Branded 


Kiowa returned to the crowded court room. Be¬ 
fore long the bailiff hunted her out and handed her 
an envelope. 

“ Couldn’t serve you before, Mrs. Orton,” he said. 
“You’re drawn on the panel. Come inside the rail. 
Seat for you.” 

The old woman shoved past the little swing gate 
and sat down among the other talesmen, her face as 
expressionless as an old squaw’s. 

When court convened, all voters drawn for the 
panel were sworn. More than the usual proportion 
sought to escape jury service. Few relished the 
thought of having to condemn a generally liked 
young fellow for the killing of a man still more gen¬ 
erally disliked and even hated. Kiowa had been the 
only woman served. She made no attempt to get 
off. 

“I’m willing to do my duty,” she said without 
heat or emphasis. 

Her name was last on the panel. The one case on 
the docket was promptly called. The jailor and 
sheriff, with a half dozen special deputies, marched 
in the prisoner from the room across the hall to 
which he had been smuggled from the jail. Some of 
the Circle B men had been heard muttering threats. 

Out of deference to the wealthy brand owners 
present, and as a sop to the rancor of the Circle B 
men, Joe had at the last moment been heavily hand¬ 
cuffed. As he found himself facing the many staring 
eyes in the court room he flushed and his head went 
up. 



The Course of Justice 


147 


The elderly judge peered down at him with magis¬ 
terial calmness. 

“Who is the defendant’s attorney?” he inquired. 

“I don’t want any lawyer, judge,” replied Joe. 
“1 didn’t do it, and I know you’ll give me a square 
deal. That’s all I need to clear me — a square deal.” 

Old Kiowa’s puckered lips drew apart in a sar¬ 
donic smile. Behind her Mary was leaning forward, 
her eyes misted, her lips trembling. 

“O— oh!” she sighed. “He says he didn’t — 
didn’t do it! ” 

For a moment she failed to see Parlen as he 
slipped into the seat beside her grandmother and 
turned half about. Joe was quicker. He saw Mary’s 
look of tremulous happiness, and he saw the eager 
backward bending of his cousin to address her. His 
head drooped. 

“Remove the defendant’s handcuffs,” ordered the 
judge. “If he insists, he is privileged to act as his 
own attorney.” 

Willingly enough, the sheriff freed his prisoner. 
The boy had saved a deal of trouble by giving him¬ 
self up. A few moments sooner Joe would have met 
the removal of his irons with a grin. Now he did 
not even glance up. He slumped down into the chair 
at the table to which the sheriff pushed him. 

He listened indifferently to the keen voice of the 
district attorney questioning the first prospective 
juror. The man was challenged for cause and dis¬ 
missed. So also were the next three. The fifth man 
affirmed a positive belief in hanging. He was ac- 



148 


Branded 


cepted by the district attorney. 

The judge explained to Joe his right to challenge, 
either peremptorily or for cause. Joe gave the hard- 
faced juror a casual glance. 

“I’ve no objection to the gentleman, sir. I agree 
with him that anybody guilty of murder ought to be 
hung. Long as I didn’t shoot Uncle Lor, all I need 
is a square deal. This juror looks to me like a white 
man.” 

Kiowa Orton tightened her lips. Mary looked 
past Parlen, and smiled. The annoyed district attor- 
new went on with his questioning of jurymen. He 
culled out many and chose few. Of the chosen, Joe 
accepted all without question, except one whose eyes 
were cold and calculating. 

64 I’d as lief excuse this gent,” he said. 44 Hap¬ 
pens I don’t like the cut of his ears.” 

The man looked at Parlen, and remained seated. 
The old judge bent over towards him. 

44 That is equivalent to a peremptory challenge. 
You are relieved from jury service in this case.” 

After the selection of another talesman as the 
eleventh juror, in place of the one 44 excused” by Joe, 
the district attorney challenged man after man. At 
last came the turn of Kiowa Orton. The attorney 
asked her a few questions, and accepted her for the 
twelfth place in the j ury box. 

Joe met the old woman’s hawk stare with a flush 
of resentment. 

44 Guess I’m as much of a fool as you think me, 
Aunt Ki. You let Hooch Huggins lie you into be- 



The Course of Justice 


149 


lieving I rustled your calves. All the same, I’m 
willing to bet you’ll give me as fair a trial as these 
other jurors.” 

The thud of the judge’s gavel checked the murmur 
of favorable comment from the dense crowd behind 
the rail. All unconsciously, Joe had made a very 
favorable impression upon everyone in the court 
room, from judge and jurors to spectators, with the 
exception of the district attorney and certain mem¬ 
bers of the Circle B outfit. 

But the glow of good feeling steadily dimmed and 
cooled under the eloquent statement of the district 
attorney as to what the prosecution expected to 
prove against the accused. In the midst Joe’s hasty 
temper flared. He jumped up, eyes flashing, chin 
out, fist threatening the supercilious lawyer. 

“You liar! You’ve no right to-” 

The alert sheriff and deputies muffled his mouth 
and dragged him down into his seat. The judge 
sternly admonished him against any more such un¬ 
seemly interruptions of the attorney duly elected to 
represent the people in the prosecution of persons 
accused of crimes. Joe defiantly stared up at his 
censurer. 

“That’s just the nub,” he retorted. “He’s call¬ 
ing me a cold-blooded murderer before he’s shown a 
bit of proof. He doesn’t know anything about it 
himself. He wasn’t there. D’you mean to tell me 
I’ve got to sit here and let him load the jury with 
all those lies?” 

The judge was a just man but very sensitive over 




150 


Branded 


matters of dignity and decorum. He gave the de¬ 
fendant curtly to understand that the district attor¬ 
ney was strictly within his rights and, in fact, was 
performing his duty in stating the case for the prose¬ 
cution. 

Joe’s eyes blazed with scorn. 

44 That’s your law, is it? Give a fellow about as 
much fair play as Part’s gang of lynchers. Shucks 1 
Go ahead and hang me.” 

He slouched back into his chair, contemptuously 
reckless of consequences. 

The district attorney accepted the invitation. He 
proceeded with much skill and energy to prove his 
case. In quick succession, he had the Circle B men 
testify to the bad feeling between the accused and 
his uncle, Taylor Brent; the omission of his name 
from his uncle’s last will; his threats and attempt 
to shoot his uncle and his cousin, Parlen Brent, in the 
Circle B ranch kitchen, on the evening of the murder; 
the discovery that Taylor Brent had been murdered; 
and the pursuit and capture of the fleeing murderer. 

The window with the neatly drilled thirty-two cali¬ 
ber bullet-hole was then introduced as an exhibit, 
and the town’s one doctor testified that Taylor Brent 
had come to his death by a thirty-two caliber bullet 
fired through his head. The ex-deputy-sheriff Bill 
was recalled to identify the Maxim silencer and tell 
how he had found it upon the person of the accused. 
This the district attorney skilfully linked up with 
the evidence that no one had heard the fatal shot. 

Throughout it all Joe continued to sit in con- 



The Course of Justice 


151 


temptuous silence. He raised no objections, and re¬ 
fused to cross-question any of the witnesses. Neither 
Parlen nor Limpy Smith nor Swede was called to 
the stand by the prosecutor, though the two punch¬ 
ers were present with their new boss, among the sub¬ 
poenaed witnesses. 

When called upon by the judge to make his de¬ 
fense, Joe still kept to his headstrong, reckless stand. 

44 It’s up to you, Judge. I didn’t shoot Uncle Lor, 
and I don’t know who did. It’s true about my being 
hot at him. But Limpy told me not to make a 
rumpus. He advised me to go to Arizona. That’s 
all I know about it. I was going off peacefully 
w T hen Pari and his pack of coyotes tracked me down 
— tried to lynch me. Looks to me as if you’re try¬ 
ing to do the same thing. I-” 

The judge sternly interrupted and admonished the 
defendant against further contempt of court. When 
he ordered him to proceed, Joe stubbornly tightened 
his lips and gave his hand a derisive toss. 

The district attorney felt so certain of a verdict 
that he closed the case and limited himself to a half 
hour’s argument. His denunciations of the accused 
were, however, so scathing that they brought a white 
flame of righteous wrath into the blue eyes of Mary. 
Joe neither winced nor flared. He sat recklessly de¬ 
fiant, eying the judge and district attorney with 
unutterable contempt. 

What did he care? Let them go ahead and hang 
him if they liked. He would be better off dead, any¬ 
way. The cards were stacked against him. Ever 




152 


Branded 


since he could remember, he had always been given 
an unfair deal. He had already lost Mary. Now 
she had hurried to buy city clothes and make up 
with Pari. 

Thanks be, that legal liar had at last wound up 
his string of lies to the jury! Now the judge was 
passing out his instructions to the jury. The bunch 
would soon— Yes, they were getting their heads to¬ 
gether. They were going to brand him out of hand. 
Well, better to have it over with and settled. 

He could not blame the bunch, not even Aunt Ki. 
On the same showing, he himself would have hung 
any man. It was only his word against all that evi¬ 
dence. So far as he could see, there had been no way 
to offset the crooked facts. Perhaps he should have 
hired a good lawyer. But he had thought they would 
give him a square deal. Anyhow, what was the dif¬ 
ference? There was Pari whispering to Mary. 

Aunt Ki’s acrid voice cut the deathly hush. 

“Judge, some the boys figger they want to mull 
this over.” 

The hour was well past the judge’s usual luncheon 
hour. He ordered the jury conducted out under 
guard, and adjourned court until they should be 
ready to report. 



CHAPTER XV 


BRAND FOREMAN 

T HE moment the jury had been locked in a room 
by itself, one of the men who knew Kiowa, 
hastened to voice the sentiment of his fellows. 

“What’s the use of wasting time? I move we ’lect 
Aunt Ki foreman and vote the kid guilty. I own a 
bunch of cows myself. Didn’t cotton to Lor Brent 
any more than most. But we owners have to stick 
together. If we don’t make an example of the kid, 
’most any ornery buckaroo is apt to up and drill 
us over some trifle or other.” 

The first juror chosen by the district attorney 
frowned and spat at the cuspidor. 

“ What ails me is the young devil can’t be hung. 
You got what the judge said ’bout circumstantial 
ev’dence. Long’s nobudy seen the murderer pull the 
trigger, the best can be did is send him up for life. 
Hang such a fool law, I say. The Circle B boys- 
should ought to be kicked for letting Limpy get their 
noose offen the bloody murderer.” 

A town juror made mild protest against this heat. 
“Oh, come. We of course must do our duty. 
But the boy cannot be the black-hearted young devil 
that the district attorney painted him. I must con¬ 
fess I rather liked the boy. I almost believe he 
153 


154 


Branded 


didn’t do it. Remember how he spoke up and said 
that all he wanted was a square deal?” 

44 Yeah, and ’member how he sulked when the 
’torney scratched him,” jeered the hanging juror. 

44 What of it?” demanded a youngish rider from 
the Goodmorrow outfit who had seen Parlen making 
himself agreeable to the daughters of his boss. 44 The 
kid ’s a damsight—’scuse me, Aunt Ki! — just the 
samee, he’s a damsight better’n his horning-in cousin. 
If on’y he’d got Pari, too, I’d vote him a medal.” 

The half hour’s wrangle that followed wound up 
in a dispute over the comparative merits of Here- 
fords and Shorthorns. That, in turn, would have 
ended in a free-for-all fight had not Kiowa shoved in 
between the furious disputants. 

44 Chop off,” she ordered. 44 I’m foreman of this 
bunch. Quit your jawing ’bout cows till we’ve 
agreed on how to brand our maverick.” 

Though no vote had been taken on the motion to 
elect the old woman foreman, none of the men jurors 
questioned her assumption of the position. Abashed 
by her tart reproof, they came back to the business 
in hand. 

44 A11 the rest of us have given our opinions, Mrs. 
Orton,” said the town juror. 44 May we now ask you 
for yours?” 

Kiowa pursed her withered lips. One clawlike 
hand went to the pocket in which was folded the 
official letter from the School Board that she had re¬ 
ceived at sunup. Her hawk eyes glittered. 

“Course the boy drilled Lor. That stands to 



Brand Foreman 


155 


reason,” she gave her conviction. “All the same, he’s 
figgering we’ll give him a square deal. He’s count¬ 
ing on us being white. Ain’t that so ? ” 

The aggressive hanging juror was first to make 
himself heard. 

“ Nobudy dast say I ain’t white and on the square. 
But I ain’t no such fool as to let any young devil 
pull the wool over my eyes with his softsawdering.” 

“Sure — nor the rest of us, neither,” agreed 
Kiowa. “And it’s same ’bout that powwowing, orat¬ 
ing district ’torney. We ain’t here to truckle to 
him and his say-so. We’re the jurors in this case. 
Way he tried to boss us, jawing ’bout we had to do 
this, and we had to do that! It’s ’nough, to rile the 
patience of Job. Jawed at us just like we was a 
bunch of kids ! ” 

Growls of approval met this tirade. Kiowa blazed 
away again. 

“What do law sharps know ’bout range matters, 
anyhow? This here killing is our affair. We know 
Joe Gale, and we knowed Lor Brent. The boy says 
we’re square and white, and he asks us for a square 
deal. You heard him tell I’m down on him ’cause 
I believed the lies of Hooch ’bout him rustling my 
calves.” 

“ ’Nuther good whyfor he oughter be strung up,” 
put in the hanging juror. 

“Whyfor—’cause I fell for Hooch’s lie?” gibed 
Kiowa. “ The boy rode in to the Seven Up to re¬ 
port the same ’gainst Hooch and Mex. Just s’pose 
he done no rustling himself. I’m guessing he didn’t. 



156 


Branded 


Such being the ease, mebbe we can figger out ’nough 
mitigating circumstances to ease off on him for this 
shooting. What if —-” 

44 Hold on, Aunt Ki. If—” 

The Goodmorrow puncher shook his fist under 
the nose of the would-be hanger. 

44 Sew up jour lip. What d’you mean busting in 
on a lady. It’s her say. Go on, Aunt Ki.” 

44 Thanky, Pete. To resume, my say is, What if 
the boy did drill Lor Brent? Hadn’t that cold¬ 
blooded fish given him plenty of cause? You’ve all 
heard tell how the mean skinflint starved and over¬ 
worked and generally mistreated the poor boy for 
years.” 

One of the quicker-thinking men tried to get in 
a word. 

44 But, Aunt Ki, that don’t excuse-” 

44 Huh! It don’t, don’t it ? Shows you never had 
any dealings with Lor Brent. But have it your own 
way. I’m talking to the white men here — the men 
who’re going to give the boy the square deal he’s 
counting on them giving him.” 

44 1 had dealings with Brent,” remarked the quietest 
of the jurors. 44 1 know how the stony-faced devil 
had Joe slaving for him without wages ever since 
the boy was knee-high to a duck, on the promise of 
willing him half the Circle B. I vote to recommend 
a light sentence.” 

Kiowa sniffed contemptuously. 

44 Willing to heat the branding-iron only red-hot, 
’stead of white, are you?” 





Brand Foreman 


157 


“Ain’t he gone and branded his ownself, Aunt 
Ki?” 

The old cow-woman fairly bristled with indigna¬ 
tion. 

“ You listen to me, you dunderheads! The law 
says a man’s persumed innocent till he’s proved 
guilty. We’re the jury — not that frog-mouthed 
’torney. Joe ain’t guilty ’less we say so. All right. 
Now, didn’t the judge tell us not to stick the brand 
on him ’fwe had a reason-able doubt?” 

“ Yes, but we all know it’s a dead cinch, Aunt Ki, 
he done it.” 

“What if he did? Nobody saw him, did they? 
’Fwe can reason out a doubt, that’s our priv’lege. 
Lemme tell you. I had a little talk with Limpy and 
Swede down at the Emporium, while my girl Mary 
was trying on her new dress. Just remember the 
’torney didn’t call neither of ’em, to the stand — nor 
Pari, neither.” 

“That’s so,” said the town juror. 

“ Sure it’s so. Well, Limpy told me that when 
the bunch started to trail the boy, nobody looked 
for tracks where the shot must have been fired from. 
When he thought of it and hit back to the ranch, 
he found the ground all tromped up by cows. That’s 
one point.” 

The hanging juror shook his head. 

“ You wait,” said Kiowa. “ It don’t stand alone. 
Here’s another. Swede says, when they trailed the 
boy down, Hooch cracked him on the head, making 
him groggy. Then Pari snuggled tight up against 



158 


Branded 


him, in the middle of the milling bunch. All right. 
Happ’ns I know the boy loaned Pari his Maxim si¬ 
lencer. Pari done that shoving up against him ’fore 
he told Bill to do the frisking. It was then they 
found the silencer on the boy.” 

For several moments there was dead silence in the 
jury room. At last the town juror asked in a low 
tone: 

“You are positive, Mrs. Orton, that the boy 
loaned it to his cousin.” 

“Positive — sure for certain — dead sure. Pari 
showed it to me.” 

“But — if only you had told that in court! The 
judge said for us to consider only the evidence.” 

“ He said we ought to consider a reason-able 
doubt,” rejoined Kiowa. “If this ain’t an able rea¬ 
son, what is? Don’t forget how they fought shy of 
calling on Limpy and Swede to testify. What 
d’you say, boys? This lets us out. Nobody’s going 
to cry over Lor Brent. Pari has got his haul, ’fore 
his uncle could unwill him, like he done to Joe. The 
boy’s had a tough deal all ’long. What d’you say 
we give him a square deal now?” 

The hanging juror started to argue. Old Kiowa 
pounded back at him. He was flint. But she was 
steel. 

An hour later a messenger brought word to the 
judge that the jury had reached a verdict. 

Within ten minutes the court room was again 
packed. Mary sat in the same front seat, on the 
spectators’ side of the rail. She had never left it. 



Brand Foreman 


159 


Parlen had brought her food from, the hotel. She 
had not touched a mouthful. She now sat white¬ 
faced and wide-eyed, the most tense of all that ex¬ 
cited, sensation-gripped crowd of onlookers. 

The sheriff and deputies brought in Joe, once 
more heavily handcuffed. The jury filed in and took 
their seats. Joe stared at them, more than ever de¬ 
fiant, and fully primed to wither them with his scorn 
when they should brand him guilty. 

The judge made formal inquiry if the jury had 
reached a verdict. Kiowa stood up, acutely alive to 
the fact that she was the focal point of every eye in 
the room. She gave Joe an acrid smile, and spoke 
out with shrill distinctness: 

“We have, Judge. Could V reported long ago, 
only for the balking of one mule. Just the same, we 
finally came to a unanimous agreement. We-” 

“The verdict, madam?” interrupted the magis¬ 
trate. 

“Now, just you hold your hosses, Judge,” advised 
the lady foreman. “I’m speaking for the jury — 
what we agreed on. Here you are: We, the j ury, being 
white and on the square, and knowing Joe Gale and 
Taylor Brent, hereby figger out a reason-able doubt. 
So we vote the boy not guilty — only he oughtn’t 
to do it again.” 

In the astonished silence that followed that quali¬ 
fying final clause Joe sat stunned and bewildered. 
He had braced himself to meet the shock of being 
found guilty. His hope of an acquittal had been 
very slight. His one chance to escape immediate 




160 


Branded 


condemnation had seemed to lie in the possibility of 
a hung jury. But to be both branded and turned 
loose. 

Through his daze he was vaguely aware of the 
judge’s voice, harsh with exasperation: 

“ Outrageous disregard of the undisputed evi¬ 
dence .... utter travesty .... most 
unfortunate that in so flagrant a case of the mis¬ 
carriage of justice, the law does not permit an ad¬ 
mitted criminal to be twice put in jeopardy for the 
same offense.” 

There followed a bitter denunciation of the jurors 
for their failure to bring in a verdict in accordance 
with the facts. The men looked down at their feet, 
abashed. Not so their foreman. Kiowa reared up 
on her high-heeled old boots. She glared unblink- 
ingly into the wrathful face of the judge. 

“ Whoa! 99 she cried. “ Back up, ’fyou don’t want 
to get throwed. I don’t care a whoop if you’re two 
judges! You ain’t got any call to ride and scratch 
me — nor any my bunch. We’re the jury in this 
case, and we’re judges of the facts. You said so 
yourself. It was up to us. We found the boy not 
guilty. That settles it. Savvy?” 

In the uproar of laughter and applause that 
greeted this outburst the judge heard few shouts of 
dissent. The elections were not far distant, and he 
was up as a candidate to succeed himself. As soon 
as his pounding gavel brought silence to the court 
room, he inclined his head stiffly to the irate old 
cow-woman. 



Brand Foreman 


161 


“ Madam, the court admits the error of speaking 
to a lady with undue heat. As you have stated, the 
jury is sole judge of the weight of evidence in crim¬ 
inal cases. The court should have gone no further 
than to point out the incorrect wording of the ver¬ 
dict. The evident intent of the jury was to report 
the act of the defendant as justifiable homicide. You 
and your fellow jurors are relieved from further 
service. Court stands adjourned.” 

Kiowa popped out of the jury box and swung 
across to where Parlen had leaned over Mary to 
whisper how glad he was about the verdict. 

“Of course he ought not to have done it, Mary. 
But we all know how aggravating Uncle Lor could 
be. I know you’re as sorry as I am over the poor, 
misguided boy. If it will please you any, I’ll put 
him on as foreman of the Circle B. You know I’ll 
do anything to please you, Mary, and make you like 
me.” 

“’Cept give Joe his half the Circle B,” tartly cut 
in Kiowa. 

“ His half? You know Uncle Lor left it all to me, 
Aunt Ki.” 

“Yes, and who’d have it now if someun hadn’t — 
fixed things — so’s you could cash in on your win¬ 
nings ? ” 

Mary quivered and shrank. 

“Oh, Gran’ma, please! Joe didn’t — you heard 
him say he didn’t.” 

“Mebbeso— mebbeso,” soothed the old woman. 
“ Leastways we ain’t going to have any truck with 



162 


Branded 


the rattler that’s crawled into the boots of Lor 
Brent. Come on, Babe. The air ’round here’s bad.” 

She shoved into the out-jostling 1 crowd with the 
willing Mary. Parlen Brent, owner of the largest 
outfit in the Yamparo country, stood where they left 
him, his eyes stony. 



CHAPTER XVI 


A JOURNEY POSTPONED 



UT of his stunned daze Joe roused to the fact 


that his wrists were free from the irons and 


friendly hands were slapping him on the shoulder. 
The sheriff and deputies and several of the specta¬ 
tors had crowded around to congratulate him over 
his acquittal. 

He heaved himself to his feet. 

“ Thank you, gentlemen. Guess I’ll be on my way. 
Sheriff, can I trouble you for my mare and layout.” 

Limpy Smith was lounging outside the door of the 
court room. Without a word or even a look, he fell 
in behind Joe and the sheriff. At the jail they found 
big towheaded Swede waiting with Limpy’s broncho 
and Joe’s mare. The sheriff turned over Joe’s rifle 
and pistol, with a parting word of good-will: 

“Glad to see you going, kid. Don’t call again.” 

Joe rode off along Main Street, seemingly indiffer¬ 
ent to the curious glances of the onlookers. Op¬ 
posite the last house his two followers pushed for¬ 
ward alongside him. As usual, Limpy spoke for 
both himself and Swede. 

“Where might you be heading for, kid?” 

“You advised Arizona.” 

“Mebbe this is a new deal,” suggested Limpy. 


163 


164 


Branded 


“You should ought to’ve seen Parl’s face — just 
like the old man’s. Guess why?” 

“I bite.” 

“He got thro wed hard by Aunt Ki — and Miss 
Mary.” 

Limpy met Joe’s incredulous stare with a nod. 

“I seen’urn. All during the trial he hung round 
Miss Mary, trying to make up to her. She looked 
clean through him. Then Aunt Ki hopped over from 
’quitting you and hopped on him good and plenty.” 

Joe slumped down again in his saddle. 

“ What’s the difference ? Aunt Ki herself put the 
brand on me. Even you and Swede believe I’m 
guilty.” 

“Lord, no, kid, not that. Didn’t you hear the 
judge? He says what we all says — just’fi’ble 
homey-cide.” 

That’s it! I’ve told I didn’t do it, yet everybody 
thinks I did — everybody!” 

The old top-rider mumbled uneasily at his quid. 

“Um-m-m— We-ell, if everybody agrees with 
the judge and jury .... ’sides, ’tain’t every¬ 
body. There’s Miss Mary. She believes your say- 
so.” 

The mare reared to< her rider’s jerk on the curb. 

“What? You old son-of-a-gun! That’s a bald- 
faced lie that and about her passing up Pari. I 
saw the way she smiled at him — God!” 

The sudden cry of despair roused Limpy to full 
action. 

“ You gone clean plumb blind, kid? She was look- 



A Journey Postponed 


165 


ing right past him — at you . I seen her ’fore he 
horned in between. You got Miss Mary all wrong. 
It’s him she’s down on, not you. She slipped me a 
word down in the Empor’um, whilst Aunt Ki was 
asking Swede ’bout the silencer. She says. ‘Tell 
Joe I was wrong. I’m sorry.’ ” 

“ You old liar! ” 

“’Struth, kid. Them’s her words—‘Tell Joe I 
was wrong. I’m sorry.’ ” 

The mare whirled to the rear. 

“ C’mon, Swede,” said Limpy. “ Looks sort of 
like we ain’t a-going to Arizony yet-awhile.” 

At the house where the Seven Up visitors had 
stopped Joe learned that Eiowa and Mary had 
already hitched up and rolled out of town. As the 
three riders were passing the hotel, someone back of 
the crowd in the veranda called out that the “homi¬ 
cide kid ” was doing well to vamoose before the Circle 
B boys could get into action. 

Joe swung off, hitched his mare to the rail, and 
jingled in to sign the hotel register. Limpy and 
Swede followed suit. They all went out and strolled 
the length of Main Street afoot. When they came 
back to the hotel Parlen Brent and his men had left 
town. 

Lest this might be a ruse, Joe stopped at the 
hotel over-night. Nobody should think he was go¬ 
ing to turn tail and run from that bunch of coyotes. 
But he might have known that his cousin was not 
the kind to attempt a second lynching — in the 
presence of witnesses. At sunup Swede brought 



166 


Branded 


word that the Circle B outfit had not returned to 
town. 

Even then Joe took pains to ride off at an un¬ 
hurried jog. But once out of sight of the last house 
he put his mare into a lope. Hour after hour he 
held to that steady swinging pace, except on the 
steeper slopes of the cross-country cut-offs. Be¬ 
hind him the tough bronchos of Limpy and Swede 
pounded along as tireless as the mare. 

Yet mid-morning passed, noon came and went, and 
they had not overhauled the Seven Up chuck-wagon. 
The reason lay in old Kiowa’s mistrust of the new 
owner of the Circle B. She and Mary had not 
camped, as usual, at sun-down. They had driven on 
homewards until late into the night. At dawn they 
had hitched up and pushed on again at a rattling 
gait. 

When they reached the ranch and drove around 
the ell of the old log house, the first thing they saw 
was a man lying beside an empty water pail near 
the dog kennel. Wakened by the thud of hoofs, the 
man sat up and started to stutter. It was half¬ 
witted Rocker. About his neck had been riveted the 
dog chain that had last been used to hold the she- 
wolf. 

From his confused and broken talk Mary man¬ 
aged to make out that immediately after the start¬ 
ing of the chuck-wagon for town Hooch Huggins 
and Mex Chavez had playfully chained him to the 
kennel to act as watch dog. Hooch had then brought 
him a bucket of water, and had ridden off westward 



A Journey Postponed 


167 


with his Mexican mate. They had taken along two 
of the best Seven Up horses, packed with Seven Up 
camp supplies. 

Mary fed the ravenously hungry man and started 
to file the chain from his neck. Kiowa had hastened 
off on a round of barn, corrals and bunk-house. As 
she came back the sound of galloping hoofs sent her 
left hand darting to the butt of her ancient Colt. 

Joe loped his mare around the end of the house 
and flung himself off in a flying dismount. As he 
landed beside Mary her grandmother recognized the 
two riders who swung past the ell after him. Her 
hand dropped away from the six-shooter. Joe had 
paid no more heed to her than if she had been a post. 
He stood stiffly erect, staring into the startled eyes 
of Mary. 

“That message you gave Limpy?” he demanded. 
“ Was it straight ? ” 

Mary’s heart was in her throat. She swallowed 
hard. 

“I — I’m sorry, Joe — really and truly. I-” 

“Say,” broke in Kiowa. “Just a minute, young 
man, ’fyou can spare the time. First thing, I want 
to know what you come trailing us for. Let me tell 
you, right off, we ain’t hankering for rustlers and 
homiciders ’round here.” 

Joe went white. 

“You’re a woman, Aunt Ki — else Fd make you 
eat those lies, if I had to pound you to a jelly. Too 
much is enough. I’ve stood all I’m going to stand 
from you or anyone. I let you know your own rid- 




168 


Branded 


ers were misbranding your calves — and you call me 
a rustler. I told you and the rest of the jury I 
didn’t shoot Uncle Lor, and-” 

“Well, then, who d’you say did shoot him? Pari? 
He planted the silencer on you, didn’t he? I know 
you loaned it to him.” 

“Pari?” Joe’s eyes widened with astonishment. 
“Why, Pari had no reason to do it. Uncle Lor 
had made the new will all in his favor — and Pari 
couldn’t have been mad at me on account of Mary. 
I was going away, to Arizona. Nor could he have 
shot Uncle Lor. He was already in with him on 
business deals. No, all I can guess is that Hooch 
must have come in the night and sneaked Parl’s rifle 
and the silencer. He was sore at Uncle Lor and at 
me, too. He could have planted the silencer on me 
when he hit me and took my gun. I don’t wonder 
at him doing it. But for you to take advantage of 
being on the jury to brand me a liar and killer !” 

“ Now, now, boy, don’t go off at half-cock. Didn’t 
we turn you loose? Besides, nobody blames you a- 
tall, and — wait. I ain’t finished my say. Pm, agree¬ 
able you should put it on Hooch, ’fyou can make it 
stick. Him and his greaser side-kick ought to be 
strung up, anyhow. I back up ’bout you rustling. 
The joke’s on me. Minute I left for town, that pair 
of lying hossthieves chained up Rocker here, and 
skipped out with at least two my bronchos, packed 
heavy with Seven Up supplies. Stands to reason 
they likewise took along a bunch of calves.” 

Limpy saw fit to differ with this conjecture. 




A Journey Postponed 


169 


“Mare like, a bunch of prime steers, Aunt KL 
Calves couldn’t stand a hurry-up over the mountains. 
Reckon them two bad hombres are right smart at 
brand-blotting.” 

Kiowa jerked a crumpled letter from her pocket 
and thrust it at Joe. 

“I caw, sonny. Only I figger ’twas Pari had it 
coming to him, ’stead of Lor. I figger ’twas him 
put ’em up to the rustling. Look at this.” 

Joe opened the letter and read it through with 
careful slowness. 

44 So — it’s done. I meant to warn you that day, 
but you wouldn’t believe me about the rustling. Now 
it’s too late. What they’ve bought from the Board 
is every acre of your leased hay land, isn’t it?” 

“A-huh. But what d’you mean by 4 they ’ ? It 
was Pari done it.” 

44 Uncle Lor must have put up most of the cash.” 

The old cow-woman’s eyes glittered. 

44 Makes me double glad I got you loose, Joe. 
Figgered Pari wouldn’t mind you being corraled at 
canon, ’count of Mary. Got this notification letter 
before the trial. It made me hopping mad. That’s 
why I got what pointers I could out of Swede and 
Limpy and horned into the jury box.” 

44 You what?” 

44 1 let Pari hear me spill around how you ought 
to be sent to the pen. Thereby I got put on the 
panel and picked for the jury.” 

Joe’s ruddy brown eyes reddened. 

44 You did that? — to brand me a killer!” 




170 


Branded 


“Lord, no. ’Twas to spite Pari. You’ve no kick 
coming, sonny. Right now you’d be on your way 
to the pen ’f I hadn’t headed off them fool he-jurors. 
They was all dead set on voting you guilty — all 
’cept one, and he was a weak sister. No, I got you 
off. Wanted to spill Pari. I own up now, owing 
to this Hooch and Mex deal, I ain’t sorry I pulled 
you out of the slough.” 

Joe had turned to look at Mary. He again faced 
her grandmother, this time without heat. 

“ You’ll be needing riders. Limpy and Swede 
have quit the Circle B. They’re going with me to 
Arizona. If you like, we’ll stop over until after the 
round-up.” 

“You’re hired,” said Kiowa. “First thing, I’ll 
ask you to hit the trail of them sneaking hossthieves. 
Unload the wagon. Mary, you hustle supper. The 
boys’ll want to turn in soon, so’s to get an early 
start in the morning.” 



CHAPTER XVII 


OUT-PLAYED 

B EFORE supper was over Joe had learned that 
employment by Aunt Ki did not necessarily 
mean friendliness. He was given no chance to see 
Mary alone, either that evening or the next morning. 

On the second day he and Limpy and Swede found 
where the pair of rustlers had rounded up half a 
hundred or more steers for the brand-blotting. From 
there the trail skirted south along the foot of the 
high mountains into the Circle B range. 

Morning of the third day the trackers met the 
stolen Seven Up horses drifting back towards home. 
Farther south, near the lower drift fence of the 
Circle B, the driven bunch of steers had been al¬ 
lowed to scatter. They had mingled with Parlen’s 
cattle, and the tracks of the rustlers’ horses disap- 
♦ peared as if the bronchos had taken wing. Fresher 
tracks showed where other riders had bunched a herd 
of perhaps two hundred steers and driven them east¬ 
ward. 

At the nearest stock-chute on the railroad the 
tenderfoot station master told his inquisitive visitors 
that Mr. Parlen Brent’s men had loaded and shipped 
several carloads of cattle. He knew little about 
brands. So> far as he had noticed, all the animals 
marked with a B in an O. He could recall 
371 


were 


172 


Branded 


nothing about slits or cuts in their ears. His records 
gave the shipment as only a hundred and sixty-three 
cattle. 

Joe telegraphed the Denver Stockyards, and 
learned that the Circle B shipment of steers had 
arrived o. k. — one hundred and sixty-three head, 
none with slit left ears or any indication of brand- 
blotting. 

“It’s no use, kid,” said Limpy. 44 Parks got 
away with it. He could’ve unloaded our steers at 
the first watering-stop. Or, more like, he shipped 
’em separate to some other stockyards, under an¬ 
other name. Easy ’nought to’ve fixed it with this 
here measly dude station wrangler. Le’s see.” 

Looking into' the muzzle of Limpy’s forty-five, the 
tenderfoot went white. Yet he stoutly denied knowl¬ 
edge of any wrongdoing. 

Joe headed for the Circle B. 

Parlen was very busy, directing six of his men in 
preparations for the beef round-up. None of the 
punchers, however, were too busy to knock off work 
when they saw the visitors. Their boss greeted his 
cousin with a show of bland pleasure. 

44 Glad to see you, Joe. Hope this means you’ve 
come to act as my foreman. I promised Mary I’d 
take you on.” 

Joe smiled back cheerfully. 

44 Strange she didn’t mention it. But I suppose 
she thought I was wanted more on the Seven Up. 
We just dropped in to take up a little collection for 
Aunt Ki — say, five dozen head of prime steers and 




Out-Played 


173 


a pair of sneaking coy— Here they are now! 
Howdy, Hooch. Buenos dias , Mex. You’re just in 
time. You’re wanted by the Seven Up for brand- 
blotting and rustling.” 

“How do you make that out?” mildly inquired 
Parlen. 

“ Trail’s plain as Hooch’s mug,” put in Limpy. 

Parlen looked surprised. 

“ Surely you can’t mean the trail of those Circle 
B renegades that drifted up into the Yamparos? 
Hooch and Mex ran them down out of the hills with¬ 
out waiting for the round-up. Long as Limpy and 
Swede had quit, I decided to take on these accom¬ 
modating punchers. Let me know when you find any 
legal proof of your charges against them. Until 
then they stay on the Circle B. Have you anything 
to say?” 

“Yes. Bill ought to hold the muzzle of Uncle 
Lor’s old scattergun higher. I filed the triggers last 
time I went out for sage hens. Come on, Swede. 
Limpy votes with me it’s time to trot along.” 

The visitors jogged off abreast, with ants crawl¬ 
ing up and down their spines. Parlen hesitated. 
So simple and open a method was against his nature. 
For the lynching he could have given the old vigi¬ 
lante excuse of having caught a murderer red-handed. 
His work at the trial had been under cover. This 
was a different situation. Unless shot dead, Joe 
would whirl and shoot back — and he would not aim 
first at Bill. Parlen ordered Bill to lower the shot¬ 
gun. 



174 


Branded 


Back at the Seven Up Limpy added his say to 
Joe’s laconic report of the failure. 

“ We’re up ag’in’ it, Aunt Ki. No proof that’ll 
hold water in the courts. Parl’s no slouch when it 
comes to slick work. As for them dodgasted brand- 
blotters, you’d ’a’ backed up your ownself, with Bill 
itching to turn loose them two barrels of buckshot.” 

Kiowa stopped boring the three with her gimlet 
eyes. 

“Well, I reckon I’ll keep you boys on. Guess 
you’ll do for round-up work, even ’fyou are no ’count 
at tracking—or calling a bluff.” 

Joe swallowed the old woman’s ingratitude, and 
led off in the hard task of combing the hills. Not 
in many years had the Seven Up gone into the round¬ 
up with three such thorough and energetic riders. 
They cleaned out valleys far back in, where the 
Yamparos merged with the high sierra. The result 
was a bunch of wild renegades, many of them maver¬ 
icks from two to five years old. 

Here was gain enough to offset the loss of the 
rustled steers. Kiowa relaxed a little from her re¬ 
sentment against her new riders. But she kept as 
close watch as ever over her granddaughter. On the 
few brief occasions that Joe had any chance to talk 
with Mary, he was held in check by the old woman’s 
sharp gaze. Mary seemed friendly yet rather re¬ 
served. 

The work gave him no time to brood, or even to 
make plans. Having combed the main part of the 
hills, the riders circled around north and east, with 



Out-Played 


175 


the ranch for their bunching-ground. This kept 
everyone on the jump until the regular time for 
meeting the Circle B outfit down at the divide. Ki¬ 
owa did not even trouble to reply when Joe suggested 
that Mary be left at home. For more reasons than 
one, she wanted the girl along. 

The morning after her outfit reached the divide 
bunching-ground, Kiowa, for the first time in years, 
did not ride out with her men. Unable to keep away 
from Mary, Parlen ventured to ride over from his 
camp alone. He calculated that by this time the 
girl’s grandmother would have sufficiently realized 
the situation to be ready for bargaining. He was 
not mistaken. 

To Kiowa Orton the Seven Up had long since be¬ 
come no less a part of her being than the flesh on her 
bones. She could no more part with it than she 
could have allowed her body to be torn in two. The 
Circle B now owned her hay land. Though she might 
be able to carry over this coming winter, the next 
one would spell ruin to the Seven Up unless she could 
provide feed for her herd. 

As Parlen came into sight she talked to Mary in 
a way that won the visitor a subdued but not un¬ 
friendly greeting from the girl. He and Kiowa then 
rode up the ridge above the camp to bargain in 
private. 

The result was a truce, if not a treaty of peace, 
between the Circle B and the Seven Up. The terms 
were known only to the two owners. But the Circle 
B riders suddenly ceased dropping casual remarks 



176 


Branded 


about neckties and forked verdicts. Friction was 
further saved by the care taken by Hooch Huggins 
and Mex Chavez to keep clear of the Seven Up camp 
and to avoid Kiowa and her riders as much as pos¬ 
sible in the round-up work. 

For the dozen or so Circle-B-branded calves that 
were brought in with Seven Up cows, Parlen had an 
equal number of calves of his own cows branded with 
the Seven Up. Even Kiowa said nothing about the 
“ mistakes ” that had been made. 

Made desperate by his cousin’s frequent visits to 
Kiowa’s camp, Joe at last adopted wolf-hunting tac¬ 
tics to see Mary alone. He doubled back and slipped 
through the trees that encircled the camp on three 
sides, when Kiowa rode across the creek with Parlen 
to look at an incoming bunch of cows. At sight of 
her stealthy visitor Mary’s eyes widened with alarm. 

“Oh— Oh, Joe!” she gasped. “Gran’ma will 
be cross. Hurry off quick — before she comes back.” 

“Not till you tell me something,” replied Joe. 
“I can’t stand it any longer. She’s set on making 
you marry Pari! ” 

Mary’s eyes flashed with indignation. 

“ She’s not. Anyway, I won’t! It’s only she says 
I must be neighborly with him, because he’s trying 
to play square. He’s admitted; that Hooch and Mex 
may have brand-blotted those steers, in order to 
curry favor with him, and he’s promised to pay her 
for them if he finds proof they did it. Another 
thing, he’s promised to lease the hay land to Gran’- 



Out-Played 


177 


44 He has?” 

44 Yes. You see, he— Oh, there’s Gran’ma com¬ 
ing back. Please, please go! She’ll discharge you — 
send you away!” 

Joe ducked back into the border of the young 
spruces on the upper side of the camp. 

44 A11 right, Mary. I’ll go because I want to stay. 
If she and Pari don’t try to rush you into it, I’m 
going to wait till I can save up for-” 

The nearness of his returning boss sent him sprint¬ 
ing back through the dense growth of spruces to his 
hidden horse. Kiowa found her granddaughter de¬ 
murely mixing pie crust. 

For the remainder of the round-up Joe worked even 
harder than before. No one could have done more 
to win the favor of his boss. Even Kiowa grudgingly 
acknowledged his faithful service. 

At the end of the round-up Parlen got in a fine 
stroke by offering Joe, in the presence of Mary, top 
pay if he would become foreman of the Circle B. 
Joe grinned, and spoke of Arizona. The two outfits 
parted in seeming friendliness. 

The bluff about Arizona, backed up by Joe’s ap¬ 
parent indifference to Mary, succeeded even with 
Kiowa. When the outfit reached the Seven Up 
ranch, Kiowa offered to keep him on all winter, along 
with Limpy and Swede. He said something about 
Arizona being pleasanter in cold weather, but per¬ 
mitted himself to be persuaded. 

Kiowa sent him to town with a sealed envelope 
addressed to the bank, and checks for his own and 




178 


Branded 


his friends’ wages. The checks were a surprise to 
him. Before the divide round-up the old cow-woman 
had repeatedly complained that she was out of funds. 
This time he did not buy Mary a fancy saddle. He 
opened a savings account. 

After the round-up the work on the Seven Up 
settled down to a comparatively easy routine. Yet 
Kiowa saw to it that her men did little idling. Their 
main work was to keep the beef cattle out of the 
hills. For, having in some manner raised enough 
money to meet running expenses, Kiowa held off her 
shipment of steers. 

Close upon Christmas came a jump in the live¬ 
stock market. Kiowa then sold off everything that 
would pass as beef, from yearlings to the old steers 
combed out of the back canons of the Yamparos. 
Though stripped down to cows and young calves, 
the Seven Up, for the first time in years, now stood 
upon a firm cash basis. 

By this time Kiowa had begun to relax her vigi¬ 
lance over Mary. The girl and Joe seemed to have 
settled down to a matter-of-fact friendship. Neither 
one showed a trace of any deeper feeling. 

During the long winter evenings that followed, 
Swede and Rocker spent all their leisure playing 
checkers, while Limpy carried on endless arguments 
with Kiowa over range matters. Mary put in every 
minute sewing, yet at the same time helped Joe with 
his studies. What little “schooling” he and Parlen 
had received on the Circle B had been picked up in 
this same manner during winter evenings. 



Out-Played 


179 


Taylor Brent had seen fit to work his nephews the 
year around. As for paying their board in town 
during the school term, that of course had been 
altogether out of the question. But as a big tax¬ 
payer, he had demanded his nephews’ full share of 
books from the school district, and the boys had dug 
out of them an irregular yet fairly good education. 
They had learned fewer facts than the school taught, 
but their reasoning faculties had been exceptionally 
well developed by the necessity of thinking out all 
problems for themselves. 

Joe was now so intent upon working out the big¬ 
gest problem of his life that he had no time to sigh 
over Mary or cast sheep’s eyes at her. By th6 end 
of February Kiowa had almost forgotten that he had 
once threatened to be a serious obstacle to her plans. 
When he asked for his winter’s pay, she drew him a 
check without hesitation. 

As he folded the slip and put it carefully into the 
pocket of his leather vest Mary quietly left her sew¬ 
ing and came to stand at his elbow. He took her 
hand in a firm clasp. 

“ We want to break the news, Aunt Ki,” he said. 
66 Mary is going to town with me. We have decided 
that we’ve waited long enough. I’ve saved all but 
five dollars of my wages this time, and-” 

“Decided! What you talking ’bout?” 

“To get married, Gran’ma,” answered Mary. 
66 You must have known how it’s been with Joe and 
me all along—only I was so frightfully mistaken 
and mean to him about that wolf. Please, Gran ma, 




180 


Branded 


don’t be angry. You know you like him ever so 
much yourself.” 

Kiowa was too astonished to burst into a fury. 
But her tongue dripped cold venom. 

44 So this is what I get for picking up a froze 
rattler and warming him in my bosom. This is 
what’s been going on right under my nose. Well, let 
me tell you, Joe Gale: You can go to town — alone. 
And you can keep right on a-going. Plumb to Ari- 
zony! No, you sew up your lip. My gran’daughter 
ain’t going to hitch up with no shiftless, shooting son 
of a shiftless no ’count drunkard. Get out and stay 
out! ” 

“But Gran’ma-” 

44 Shut up! Idee you thinking of lowering your¬ 
self to marry a cheap cowboy that ain’t got a cow 
to his name — when you can have the biggest owner 
in the Yamparo country. Stop that crying and go 
to bed, or I’ll tan your hide with a quirt. Joe Gale, 
I told you to git! ” 

Joe had been looking steadily into Mary’s grief- 
stricken face. He turned and went out into the 
night. 




CHAPTER XVIII 


YOUTH AGAINST AGE 

A N HOUR before dawn Kiowa was wakened by 
the howl of a wolf. Eor many months noth¬ 
ing had been seen or heard of Splay Foot on the 
Seven Up. The murderous she-wolf seemed to have 
left the Yamparos. But this unutterable dismal howl 
roused old Kiowa quicker than the scream of a 
mountain lion. 

She jumped into her winter clothes, grabbed her 
rifle, and ran across to the bunk-house. At her call, 
Limpy and Swede fumbled their way out into the 
dim starlight. But Joe did not follow. She de¬ 
manded to know why. Limpy mumbled something 
about the kid having headed for town. 

Kiowa tartly ordered the men to circle around the 
feed lot with her, on the chance of surprising the 
wolf. But they had not yet reached the barn when 
the desolate howl of the gray prowler came quaver¬ 
ing out of the blackness in the east. 

44 Huh! ” sniffed Kiowa. 44 If that’s Splay Foot, 
I reckon she’s tagging after that no ’count ornery 
young cuss. Hope she follows him all the way to 
Arizony.” 

Swede, as usual, was silent, and Limpy, for once, 
had no more to say than his big side-kick. 

Kiowa went in to start the kitchen fire. Dawn was 


181 


182 


Branded 


too near for her to go back to bed. She drew up 
her rocker to the stove and sat brooding. Good 
thing the boy had cleared out. Mary would now be 
easy to handle. Too bad the girl had taken such a 
fancy to the young scalawag. Her own fault. She 
might have known how it would turn out. 

The boy was mighty likable. If only Lor Brent 
had willed him the Circle B, instead of leaving it to 
Parlen — yes, if only he had left the boy a half 
interest — or even less! But no use crying over spilt 
milk. She must take care of her granddaughter and 
the Seven Up. Besides, it was now settled for good. 
The boy had hit out for Arizona. 

Dawn had already begun to pink the ghostly snow 
peaks of the high mountains. The chill gray under¬ 
light was creeping down upon the black crags of the 
Yamparos. Kiowa stuffed more billets of wood into 
the stove and went to rouse Mary. 

Just by way of precaution, she had locked the door 
of Mary’s room. She turned the key and called 
for the girl to roll out. There was no answer. She 
flung the door open and struck a match. No sign 
of Mary. The bed had not been used. 

She had not considered the little slide window. It 
had seemed too small for even herself to crawl 
through. She had failed to take into account Mary’s 
girlish slenderness. 

Red dawn found her ready for the road. She 
hop-mounted the broncho saddled for her by Swede 
and started off at an easy jog. She was far too old 
a hand at long-distance racing to put her horse into 



Youth Against Age 183 


a lope before he had been warmed up. 

The broncho had still to quicken out of the jog 
when a patch of snow on the town road told his 
rider she had struck the trail. It told her more. 
The previous day had been warm, the night cold. 
The hoof prints of the two horses were stamped deep 
in the white surface. The elopers had started off so 
early in the night that the slushy snow had not yet 
frozen. 

Running along with the hoof prints were slight 
scratches on the hardened surface. One set of 
scratches was wide-spread. Its claw-marks had been 
made by the huge splayed left forepaw of Splay 
Foot. Kiowa found herself wondering. Why had 
the she-wolf howled and followed the trail of the 
runaways? Had she been drawn by love or by hate 
—.by the scent of the man who had harmed her, or 
the scent of the girl who twice had saved her from 
death ? 

But the vengeful old woman had little thought to 
spare on speculations over the vagaries of wolf na¬ 
ture. She put her broncho into a gallop. The elop¬ 
ers may have counted too much upon their long start. 
By hard riding she might overtake them before they 
reached town, or at least before the ceremony. She 
calculated the very utmost that her horse could give 
her, and pushed him to the limit. 

The road and even the cut-offs were in good condi¬ 
tion for fast riding. Joe had chosen his time when 
a dry spell and a two weeks* February thaw had 
cleared the lower country of all snow except an occa- 



184 


Branded 


sional shallow drift. Kiowa made a record run. 

Yet mercilessly as she spurred her broncho, she 
was still a long mile from town when a sharp turn 
around a spur of rocks brought her suddenly face to 
face with those whom she sought. They were com¬ 
ing back from town. 

Her jerk on the curb bit threw her broncho on his 
haunches between the astonished couple. But, for 
all his surprise, Joe lost none of his quickness. He 
twisted the partly drawn Colts out of the hand of 
the furious old woman. 

44 ’Scuse me, Gran’ma,” he said. 44 It’s too soon for 
Mary to become a widow.” 

Kiowa turned her back on him, to glare at her 
granddaughter. 

44 You — you! Run off and married him, have 
you?” 

44 Oh, Gran’ma, please, please forgive us! You 
know I couldn’t help it. We’d have waited, if only 
you hadn’t made Joe leave.” 

44 Huh! Glad you ain’t forgot that. I told him 
to get out — for good. You chose to go with him. 
You’ve made your bed. Now you can lie on it. I’m 
done with you. Don’t you ever again darken my 
door. You’re no longer kith or kin of Kiowa Orton. 
I don’t own nary granddaughter who has no more 
gumption than to hitch up with a sneaky, shiftless, 
rustling killer! ” 

Mary’s face whitened. Her eyes suddenly went 
dry. S 4 he turned her horse and started back to town. 
Joe paused only to shell the cartridges out of the 



Youth Against Age 


185 


Colts and hand the ancient weapon back to its owner. 

Until the young couple passed from sight Kiowa 
sat her panting broncho as if turned to stone. She 
rode on into town at a walk. For the first time in 
her long hard life she was close upon physical and 
mental collapse. She went to bed at the house of 
the friend with whom she and Mary had stayed dur¬ 
ing Joe’s trial. 

Though she tossed through a night of feverish 
broken sleep, morning found her tough old body 
partly recovered from that killing race against time. 
Her rage had lulled. She thought of what life would 
be without Mary, out there on the lonely range. 
The thought added fuel to her hatred of the young 
man who had stolen the girl away from her. But 
she could not resist her yearning. She sent out her 
friend to fetch the girl. 

The woman came back alone. All she had been able 
to learn was that Joe had drawn his money from the 
bank and ridden off southwards with Mary. The 
hotel keeper, however, had made his guess that the 
young couple were heading for Arizona. 

Kiowa did not flare into another rage. She saddled 
her still tired and stiff broncho and broke off home¬ 
wards, outwardly resigned to her loss. Her anger 
had burned itself to ashes. But the ashes held all the 
acrid bitterness of unforgiving rancor. 

She now hated even Mary. The girl had deserted 
her, to throw in with that treacherous, sneaking, two- 
faced young skunk. She had ruined her own chances 
for a prosperous future, and at the same time had 



186 


Branded 


cut off all chance of saving the Seven Up. Parlen 
had agreed to lease the hay lands — on one condi¬ 
tion. Now the girl had made fulfillment of that 
condition impossible. 

Even at that, there was a shadow of an excuse to 
be made for her. After all, she was only a girl — a 
girl in love. Though she should not have been so 
utterly disobedient and ungrateful, still a little al¬ 
lowance had to be made on account of her love for 
that fellow. She was young and she loved him. 

But as for him! The old woman’s overflowing 
venom poisoned her soul. He had spoiled all her 
plans. She called upon God to curse him. 



CHAPTER XIX 


THE LASH 

H AD Kiowa followed the couple to the nearest 
government land office, she might have 
learned that they had other plans than a trip to Ari¬ 
zona. 

Both Joe and Mary had been born and reared 
in the Yamparo country. It was their home land. 
Parlen, in like circumstances, would have drifted 
away, following the line of least resistance. But 
they were held by the Yamparos almost as fast as 
was old Kiowa. 

They made their venture, clear-eyed to all the 
hardship and strife that it was bound to bring upon 
them. Knowing the odds against them, they took 
care to keep their plans and movements to them¬ 
selves. Possession was nine points of the law. 

Neither Parlen nor Kiowa had the slightest ink¬ 
ling what was taking place until, at the usual time, 
they brought their outfits to the divide for the spring 
round-up. 

Kiowa and her men were first to arrive. They 
found their way barred by a wire fence. The fence 
enclosed a mile length of creek-bottom meadow and 
the best part of the bunching-ground. 

Limpy had all the old-time range rider’s contempt 
for nesters. Pie rode ahead of the chuck-wagon to 
187 


188 


Branded 


cut the fence. Kiowa drove through and down to 
her favorite camp ground. It was the sheltered 
nook on the creek bank where she had camped year 
after year. On all sides except the south it was 
walled in by dense growths of aspens, pines and blue 
spruce. 

Atop the high bank, where the rill of the best 
spring within miles tumbled over into the creek, 
stood a new log cabin. A man and woman with 
shovels were covering the last unfinished corner of 
the brush-and-dirt roof. An alert collie dog ran 
out to bark warning. The man and woman dropped 
their shovels and came forward to meet the visitors. 

Kiowa had already recognized the nesters. Her 
left hand went back to her hip. Joe grinned and 
held up his right hand, palm forward, in the old 
Indian sign for a peace talk. 

44 Hold on, Aunt Ki,” he called. 64 I’m not heeled. 
You can’t call it self-defense. Limpy and Swede 
will back the testimony of Mary.” 

The old woman drove forward and jerked her 
team to a halt close before the young couple. She 
stared down at Joe, perversely heedless of the appeal¬ 
ing gaze of Mary. 

44 You miser’ble squatter,” she shrilled. 44 I’ll give 
you just the time to get off my range that it takes 
a top-hand to rope his hoss and saddle-up. There 
ain’t going to be any second warning.” 

Joe’s grin widened. 

44 You done said something, Aunt Ki. You’ll savvy 
a second warning is useless — when you hear that 



The Lash 


189 


this isn’t jour range. Happens, it’s my homestead. 
I’ve taken it up in a string of forties that straddle 
the creek.” 

“ Do tell ! 99 scoffed Kiowa. 44 Reckon you’re an 
owner now, do you? How many head d’you figger 
to graze on your hundred-and sixty, ’fyou’ll allow 
me to ask ? 99 

44 No more than you think, Aunt Ki. This is only 
my hay land. My desert land claim is the dry bench 
down here south of the creek. My timber and stone 
claim runs up here along the south ridge. I’m wait¬ 
ing for you to thank me. By the time I get all my 
land fenced, Parl’s cows won’t be so apt to drift 
across onto the Seven Up and cut down your grass.” 

The last statement stayed Kiowa’s tongue, but 
only for a moment. 

44 You don’t softsawder me with any such horn- 
swoggling. Nobody’s asked you to meddle betwixt 
me and Pari Brent. What’s more, all this here di¬ 
vide has been Seven Up range since it was In jin 
country. You mark my word, it’ll be might healthy 
for you to get off it, and get sudden.” 

Joe’s grin hardened into' grim sternness. 

44 That’s enough, Mrs. Orton. You’re not going 
to bluff me. This was public domain. It still is 
public range except what’s now my private land. If 
you want to law me, go ahead and sue. If you want 
to try running me off, start your fireworks. My 
holster is empty. I can’t gun-fight a woman. Go 
ahead and murder me. You’re trespassing on my 
legal homestead claim and you cut my fence, both 



190 


Branded 


of which are against the law. Now go ahead and 
shoot me.” 

Kiowa tightened the reins and started to swing 
her team around. Joe’s close-set lips relaxed in a 
good-natured smile. 

“Wait a minute, Aunt Ki. Mary and I’d be glad 
to have you put up with us. Yes, and you’re wel¬ 
come to use our land for your bunching-ground. 
The fence will save you the need of a man to ride 
herd. I’ll join in with Limpy and Swede without 
pay, Aunt Ki, if only you’ll let Mary-” 

“ Bah! ” derided Kiowa. “ Choke off that blatt.” 

She caught the wagon whip from its socket. Mary 
ran in past the heads of the horses, her hands up- 
stretched. 

“ Gran’ma! ” she appealed. “ Don’t go — don’t! 
If only you’ll-” 

“ Get out of the way,” snapped Kiowa. 

The whip swished in a vicious stroke. She may 
have intended only to strike the off horse. Not im¬ 
probably she expected Mary to dodge. The girl 
stood as if frozen. The whip curved around her up¬ 
raised left arm and lashed across her face. 

Joe saw red. Only the jump between of Limpy’s 
horse and the quick-following clutch of Swede’s big 
hands kept him from dragging Kiowa off the wagon 
seat. Startled by the commotion, the half-broken 
team started to run away. Kiowa had all she could 
do to head them back to the gap in the fence. 

Limpy lingered for an awkward attempt at con¬ 
solation. 





The Lash 


191 


44 Don’t you mind, Miss Mary. She didn’t aim for 
to do it. You know she didn’t. She’ll shy clear from 
now on. And me and Swede’ll do our durndest to 
shoo off the Circle B,” 

44 No, you won’t! ” shouted Joe. 44 I’ll take no help 
from her men. Go mend my fence and clear out. 
I’ll shoot on sight anybody I catch cutting my 
wires.” 

44 Don’t blame you, kid — getting all het up. 
Don’t blame you a-tall. Leave him go, Swede. Aunt 
Ki’s got a safe start on him. S’long, Miss Mary. 
Try to hold him down, ’fyou can. That Circle B 
bunch’ll be hankering for a ’scuse to act ornery.” 

44 Tell ’em they’re welcome to try — sooner the 
better,” said Joe. 

His look sent Limpy and Swede riding off with 
sober faces. 

The old top-rider took upon himself to ride south 
until he met the up-bound Circle B outfit. The news 
he brought acted upon most of the punchers like 
a red flag on a bull. But Parlen weighed it with care 
and gave cool judgment. 

44 Don’t forget what he did down at the ranch, that 
time he threatened to shoot me and Uncle Lor. He’ll 
be on the lookout for us, and he still has his silencer. 
It won’t be any stand-up-and-face-us fight. He’ll 
do it again Indian fashion, from cover. Limpy is 
right. You have my orders to shy him and his 
fence.” 

When the Circle B outfit reached the divide, Kiowa 
listened to the decision of their owner with bitter 



192 


Branded 


contempt. However, she made no objection to the 
location of the new bunching-ground a full mile down- 
creek from the nester’s lower fence. 

On the second day, while Kiowa and all the hired 
hands were off in the hills, Parlen followed a set of 
team and wheel tracks that he knew had not been 
made by his own or the Seven Up chuck outfit. The 
tracks led him to a wire gate in the fence, across the 
creek from the new cabin. The distance was not too 
great for him to make out Mary completing the dirt 
cover of the cabin roof. He could see nothing of 
Joe. 

But as he started to unhook the gate, a bullet 
pinged low over his head. No report of the shot 
followed. He flung himself into his saddle and 
spurred his thoroughbred horse around the nearest 
rocky point. No second bullet followed. 

He said nothing about his balked venture. But 
that afternoon Bill came in with a thirty-two caliber 
bullet hole through the peak of his fo’gallon hat. 
He loudly demanded vengeance upon “the cussed 
skulking ’sassin.” All that he had done was follow 
a bunch of cows that swung in close to the homestead. 
Parlen coldly reminded him of the command to keep 
clear of the nester’s fence. After this every Circle 
B man took care not to show himself anywhere near 
Joe’s claim. 

Kiowa had from the first chosen to do all her rid¬ 
ing in the opposite direction. Not that she was 
afraid of Joe. But she could not get out of her 
mind’s eye the vision of Mary’s white face, streaked 



The Lash 


193 


across like a wound by the scarlet welt of the whip 
lash. The girl must believe that her grandmother 
had purposely struck her. It was all Joe’s fault! 
Kiowa’s rancor against him became still more acrid. 

Even Swede and Limpy circled wide of their 
friend’s homestead when riding up into the hills or 
driving out cows and steers. But on the last day of 
the round-up, after the divided herds had been well 
started in opposite directions, the old top-rider 
jogged around to the wire gate and held up his right 
hand. 

Mary ran across the tree trunk that had been 
felled for a bridge, and hurried up the slope to the 
visitor. 

“ Wh-what is it ? ” she panted. “ Is Pari going to 
rush us ? ” 

“Not him — it’s daylight,” answered Limpy. 
“ No, I just got a leetle business with the kid, Miss 
Mary. Your gramma’s outfit and Part’s ’ve all 
headed for home.” 

Mary waved her apron up-creek towards a high 
crag that gave a commanding view of all the home¬ 
stead and its borders. The lame old puncher tied 
his horse to the gate post and hobbled beside Mary 
down to the creek. As they crossed the bridge log, 
Joe came out of the spruce trees up-stream. On the 
muzzle of his rifle was the Maxim silencer. Limpy 
met his none-too-cordial look with a half-toothless 
smile. 

“Howdy, kid. Still on the warpath, huh?” 

“ Needn’t tell me your news,” replied Joe. “ I saw 



194 


Branded 


them pull out. But I trust Pari and his bunch no 
more than her.” 

Limpy thoughtfully rolled his quid. 

“Um-m-m— I figger all she’s hankering for is 
someun else to do the hazing. ’Twon’t be Pari. 
He’s too fond of his hide. Mebbe some his bunch’ll 
sidle up thisaway — after they figger you done 
stopped looking out for ’em. Then ag’in, mebbe 
they won’t. They got a sort of notion a thirty-two 
with a silencer is mighty bad med’cine.” 

At sight of Joe’s smile, Mary broke her silence. 

44 You’ll stay and eat with us. I’ll have something 
on in a jiffy.” 

“ No’um. Can’t stop. D’want to rile your gram¬ 
ma. Lost my wad last night, so’s I could come back 
and look for it.” 

The old puncher unbuckled his hollow cartridge 
belt and began to shake into his hat gold pieces and 
long, tight folds of bank notes. 

“Been saving up for a coon’s age,” he explained. 
Always had a idee, kid, your uncle might throw 
you. ’Tain’t bad having a stake when you got a 
fam’ly and ’re starting out to become a owner. 
Swede chipped in his last wages.” 

Joe’s face lost its last trace of harshness. 

“ You old son-oLa-gun! But you know I can’t 
take it. I’m counting on getting a job as Govern¬ 
ment hunter till I can prove up on my land claims. 
Pact is, killing Gotch Ear and catching Splay Foot 
put me in good with the Association. I’ve got the 
job cinched.” 



The Lash 


195 


“Shucks, kid; you’ll never get anywheres just 
hunting. Tell you what. Use this here wad to buy 
you a bunch of stockers. That’ll give you a start- 
off. ’Fyou want, you can figger me in as a sort of 
silent pard. What say?” 

“No go. Like Uncle Lor, Pari is keeping the 
divide over-stocked. He’ll throw on still more head 
if I try to graze even half a hundred cows.” 

“ Come to think, kid, I reckon you’re right. But 
if you can’t look for no grazing, what’s the use you 
nesting here?” 

The hard look came back into Joe’s eyes. 

“For one thing, this is my claim. I’m going to 
prove up on it. For another thing, I intend to buck 
Pari and — her — to the limit. They’d soon starve 
out a bunch of cows. But how about — sheep?” 

The old cowboy’s mouth gaped. 

“ Sheep? ” he mumbled, “ sheep? You? A measly 
sheep-herder! ” 

“Owner,” corrected Joe. He grinned. “How 
long will they run cows on the divide after I start to 
graze a few hundred woolies ? ” 

“Lord! You gone plumb loco, kid? Aunt Ki 
and Parl’ll throw fits ’fyou bring one single sol’tary 
lone sheep in sight of the Yamparos. They ain’t 
never been no sheep nowhere on this here range. It’s 
cow country — cow! ” 

“So was all Wyoming. Now it’s pretty much all 
wool, the state wide. We’ll be next. Think of all 
those flocks over on the dry mesa country east of 
town.” 



196 


Branded 


“You done said it, kid — dry. Not ’nough water 
out thataway for cows. Plenty over here. This 
is cow range.” 

“ It’s public range, open to all comers. I talked 
with more than one sheepman before filing on these 
claims. Sheep are my one best bet to beat the game 
against Pari and her. Belt up your wad. I’m not 
asking you to turn sheep owner.” 

Limpy mumbled his quid and spat nervously. He 
had been born and reared in the cow country. To 
him and his like, sheep were more to be hated than 
gray wolves. For Joe to go over to the enemy was 
little short of treachery. Only thing, the kid had 
been given a crooked deal by his uncle and Aunt Ki 
— and he, Limpy, had as good as reared him; had 
been a foster-father to him. He gulped. 

“I can’t do it, kid — y’know I can’t. Just the 
smell of mutton makes me sick to my stummick. I 
can’t throw in with you. On’y, my wad stays put. 
Call it a loan ’fyou like. S’long.” The gold and 
bank notes dropped out of the overturned hat. 
“ S’long, Miss Mary. Sorry I can’t stop for chuck. 
Aunt Ki ain’t even in sight of your dust when it 
comes to cooking. No, T. won’t take back nary a 
cent, kid. Dump it in th^ crik ’fyou don’t want 
to use it.” 

He was already crossing the foot-log. He limped 
rapidly off up the slope. 

Mary knelt down to gather the bank notes in her 
apron before they could blow away. 

“The old dear! Look, Joe. Most of them are 



The Lasli 


197 


twenties — and here’s a bunch of fifties. We’ll be 
able to buy quite a flock.” 

Joe lowered his troubled eyes from the small figure 
limping hurriedly up to the gate. 

44 1 don’t care,” he muttered. 44 It’s on them — 
her and Uncle Lor and Pari. They ought to have 
played fair.” 



CHAPTER XX 


SHEEP 

A LMOST two months later Parlen came alone 
to the Seven Up ranch. He found Kiowa 
cooking supper and in none too amiable a mood. 

“What you nosing in here for now?” she de¬ 
manded. “You’ve got my hay land, and your no 
’count cousin’s got my girl. Ain’t nothing left 
but the soup bones.” 

“ Don’t go and get all riled up for nothing, Aunt 
Ki,” he soothed. “I’m going to Denver on some 
business that I’d like to talk over with you. It con¬ 
cerns us both.” 

“As how?” 

Parlen looked at Mary’s fancy saddle. It still 
hung from the peg in the far corner of the log walls 
where the girl had put it when Joe brought the gift 
home to her. The months that had passed since 
then seemed ages to Parlen. 

“Isn’t that the way with girls?” he muttered. 
“ Let a reckless fool squander all he has on them, and 
they can’t so much as see a man with ten times as 
much.” 

“Ten times?” scoffed Kiowa. “You’re owner of 
the Circle B, and he’s got only his piddling claims. 
It’s more like a hundred to nothing.” 

As Parlen started to reply, Limpy, Swede and 
198 


Sheep 


199 


Rocker silently filed in for supper. They eyed the 
visitor with the blank look of polite hostility. He 
started to talk about the condition of the range. 
But when, at the end of the meal, the punchers went 
out to the bunk-house, he lingered in the lamp-lit 
kitchen. 

‘‘About that hundred to nothing proposition, Aunt 
Ki,” he remarked. “You may not have heard what 
he’s doing.” 

“Started a skunk farm, I reckon. Just like him 
to hanker for congen’al comp’ny.” 

“ Guess again. Didn’t you notice he had a col¬ 
lie?” 

“ Well, say it. I ain’t lost my ears.” 

“ Sheep,” said Parlen. 

Kiowa’s hawk eyes glittered. 

“Sheep? Aw, come off. You’re trying to string 
me. Why, he wouldn’t have the gall. Anyhow, he 
didn’t have money enough left to get any, after buy¬ 
ing his outfit. ’Sides, he was raised on cow. You 
can’t string me. Sheep!” 

“ Go look for yourself. I don’t know how he got 
them. Maybe he’s only herding for one of the big 
flock masters over in the mesa country. They may 
think they can crowd into the Yamparos, and shove 
off the cows. It would be like Joe to do the dirty 
work for them, just to spite us.” 

“You ain’t fooling—honest now, Pari? Lord! 
if he’s had the nerve to bring in one sheep—” 

“Two hundred head, at least, Aunt Ki. Only a 
starter, as flocks go. But you’ve heard how cattle 



£00 


Branded 


won’t range with sheep. I didn’t see a cow or steer 
anywhere on the divide. Worse still, where those 
sheep have grazed they’ve made a clean sweep— 
grass cut down to the roots.” 

Suspicion of her visitor’s motives kept Kiowa’s 
rancor from flaring into rage. She asked sourly: 

“Well, what you going to do ’bout it?” 

“ That’s what I came to tell you, Aunt Ki. It’s as 
much your interest as mine to stop him. I’m going 
to Denver to ask an A-one lawyer if we can’t get out 
an injunction. If not, I thought we might throw in 
together and lease the land around his claims. We 
wouldn’t have to renew the leases after he’s been 
frozen out.” 

Kiowa’s face went wry. 

“Heap of money I’ve got to put into leases on 
grazing land! You know, well’s me, I won’t have a 
steer this fall for the beef market, and you know 
how I loaded up on stackers last April. Held back 
only ’nough cash to pay you for the hay land leases 
you promised me.” 

“Oh, yes, that promise. I aim to be a man of 
my word, Aunt Ki. Only don’t forget you’ve fallen 
down on your side of the deal. You let our kid 
sheep-herder rustle what was coming to me.” 

“’Twasn’t my fault. Just you go look at that 
window in her room. Tight squeeze for a chip¬ 
munk ! Anyway, how’d I know he could be slick as 
you, keeping it under his hat thataway?” 

Parlen took this rather as a compliment, but was 
not to be diverted. 



Sheep 


SOI 


44 I stand ready to deliver when you do. It’s some 
time yet before you’ll need that hay. He hasn’t lost 
his bullheaded recklessness. Something may happen 
to him even before I get back from Denver.” 

44 As how?” 

The pointed question was met by a bland smile. 

44 Why, I was thinking only of his horse rolling on 
him; or he might happen to drop his gun wrong end 
up. The point is, how about your side of the deal, 
if she’s left free?” 

44 1 savvy.” Kiowa, in turn, looked at the fancy 
saddle. 44 Well, it sort of depends. Mebbe I’ll be 
ready to tell you when you get back.” 

The set of the old woman’s skinny jaw told Parlen 
that argument would be useless. 

He left before dawn on his speedy thoroughbred, 
determined, for reasons of his own, to catch the train 
that passed through town in the afternoon. 

Kiowa had taken her consideration to the visitor’s 
motives and schemes to bed with her. Shortly after 
he left she called Limpy into consultation. The 
lame puncher came with his own surmises as to why 
Parlen had visited the Seven Up. He was braced for 
the first sharp query of his lady boss: 

44 What d’you know ’bout that nester running 
sheep on my range ? ” 

44 Well, if Pari ain’t lyin, Aunt Ki-” 

44 He ain’t, but you’re all set to. Own up like a 
little man. You’re in cahoots with that — that— 
sheep-herder! ” 

44 Me? Nope, Aunt Ki. You got me all wrong. 




Branded 


202 


No mutton in mine. I don’t have nothing nohow to 
do with no sheep. I’m a cow-puncher, tooth and 
toenail, hoofs to hair. ’Fyou want to fire me, go 
ahead. It’s your priv’lege. But you ain’t got no 
call to insult me. Sheep-herder? — me!” 

The indignation in Limpy’s look and voice was too 
unmistakably genuine to have been shammed. Kiowa 
grunted and jerked her head. 

“Reckon you’ll do to take along. Something’s 
liable to happen to a flock of sheep. Just the same, 
I won’t stand for murder. Come and saddle up. 
We’ll leave Rocker. ’Tain’t fair running a locoed 
critter up against trouble. He ain’t any use with 
a gun, anyhow.” 

Limpy had no need to ask questions. Parlen had 
come to rile the old Tartar, and had gone off at a 
gallop, to establish his alibi. What fault of his if, 
during his absence, a flock of sheep should be smoked 
up, or even if some of the Circle B men were forced 
in self-defense to shoot a sheep-herder? 

The pace was set by Kiowa. Swede had dropped 
a long quarter-mile behind by the time the first 
steep grades up the hills of the divide slowed the 
racing bronchos to a jog. By running alongside 
his horse, Swede overtook the leaders as they cut up 
the ridge that overlooked the creek. 

From the other side of the ridge sounded an up¬ 
roar of shots and the loud bleating of frightened 
sheep. A billow of black smoke rolled up against 
the cloudless sky. Limpy dug his spurs into his 
broncho’s flanks. 



Sheep 


203 


“ C’mon,” he shouted. “ The lobos beat us to it.” 

Kiowa and Swede sprinted over the crest close be¬ 
hind him. No need to stop at the fence. It had been 
cut in a dozen places. On the opposite rim of the 
little valley three men were running the panic- 
stricken flock of sheep towards the higher hills. As 
they galloped at the heels of the weak laggards they 
“ smoked up ” the helpless creatures with rapid shots 
from their pistols. The heavy mass of smoke was 
rising from amidst the trees at the old camp site. 

Kiowa led the plunge down-slope to the cabin. 
The racket across the valley drowned the noise of 
their jumping, slithering, sprinting bronchos. No 
one barred the way of the newcomers as they swept 
around into the glade. 

Near the largest aspen on the lee side of the burn¬ 
ing cabin, two of the Circle B men stood with hands 
gripped fast on Mary’s bare white arms. Her torn 
sleeves and the mass of golden hair glinting about 
her shoulders showed how desperately she had strug¬ 
gled. She now sagged exhausted in the clutch of her 
captors, her despairing gaze fixed upon Joe. 

But this time the matter had not gone quite so 
far as down at the Circle B’s south drift fence. Mex 
Chavez was casting his horsehair reata over a branch 
of an aspen. Hooch Huggins and Bill were drag¬ 
ging Joe up into his wagon, in which Mary’s flour 
barrel had been perched, upside down, upon her 
kitchen table. 

The surprise was not so complete as when Limpy 
had interrupted the first “ necktie party.” But sight 



204 


Branded 


of Kiowa in the lead made the Circle B men hesitate 
over reaching for their guns. They knew that the 
old woman hated Joe. In that moment of delay 
they were covered by her ancient Colts and the 
pistols of Limpy and Swede. 

Kiowa disdained even to so much as disarm the 
lynchers. 

“ Git!” she cried. 

All discreetly made for their horses. Hooch alone, 
as he mounted, ventured to remonstrate: 

“Aw, Aunt Ki, how come? Didn’t reckon you was 
backing no dirty sheep-herder.” 

“Nor you ain’t murdering nobody on my range 
yet-awhile,” retorted the old cow-woman. “You 
go help run them pesky sheep. I’ll run the sheep- 
herder. Git! ” 

The vigilantes slithered their horses down the 
high creek bank and went splattering off aslant the 
drought-shallowed stream. Mary had already run to 
untie Joe. He had been badly beaten, but was not 
dazed. His eyes were already too puffed for him 
to see. He turned his battered, bleeding face in the 
direction from which had come the voice of his res¬ 
cuer. His swollen lips twisted in a humorous grin. 

“All you have to do now, Aunt Ki, is beg Mary’s 
pardon, and we’ll call it accounts squared.” 

“Oh, no, no, Gran’ma,” cried Mary. “You’ve 
saved him. You can whip me now all you like.” 

Kiowa wheeled her horse to the rear, her withered, 
wrinkled face twitching convulsively. 

“You, Limpy,” she shrilled, “you and Swede ride 



Sheep 


205 


herd on the pair of ’em to the railroad. From there 
I figger they can hoof it ’cross to the sheep country 
— where they belong.” 

The broncho jumped to the jab of her spurs. She 
was still scratching him when they dashed from sight 
around the corner of the trees. Limpy at once 
took charge. 

“ Did the lobos run off your hosses, too, kid ? ” 

“They were in the corral,” replied Mary. “You 
might look.” 

Limpy jerked his thumb at Swede. 

“ Hop to it. Them sneaky lobos is mighty apt to 
round back on us. Best if we don’t have to ride 
double.” 

Swede raced with him past the flaming cabin and 
through the thicket of young spruce to the corral. 
The lynchers had been too busy to run off Mary’s 
pony and Joe’s mare, or to take the saddles and 
bridles from the top rail of the corral. 

When the two punchers came hastening back with 
the led horses Mary was bathing Joe’s wounds in the 
spring rill. He raised his drenched head. 

“That you, Limpy? I want to tell you, Mary 
and I aim to begin paying off that loan soon as I 
get my Government hunter job. I as good as had 
promise of it from the Biological Survey when you 
made me the loan.” 

“Aw, forget it, kid. You and Miss Mary don’t 
owe me nary a red cent. Wasn’t I a pard in your 
outfit ? When a outfit goes bust, all pards stand to 
lose.” 



Branded 


206 


“You old liar! You’re not a partner. That was 
a loan. You wouldn’t have a thing to do with 
sheep.” 

Limpy scratched his head. 

“I done reconsidered. Ain’t no sheep in it now, 
nohow. Them lobos is heading the cussed woolies 
for that there jump-oif into the box canon. Hear 
’em still hitting it up, hell-to-leather. Won’t be no 
sheep question left, soon’s they run them woolies over 
the jump-off. It’s a sixty-foot drop.” 

Mary shuddered and threw up her bare arm 
before her eyes. 

“ Can’t help them sheep going down, ma’am,” 
went on the old puncher. “ Nor we can’t help a 
used-to-be sheepman from going up, ’fwe don’t skip 
out muy pronto .” 

Swede boosted Joe onto the mare. Joe could not 
see. But he had only to let the reins hang slack. 
The mare followed close after Swede’s horse. Mary 
rode behind Joe, to call out warnings of jumps over 
gulleys and down-timber. Limpy brought up the 
rear, with a watchful eye over his shoulder. 

Half a mile or so below the badly cut lower fence 
they passed a number of dead and dying sheep. At 
the far border of the shambles lay the collie, shot 
in the defense of his charges. Mary cried out for a 
halt, and sprang off beside the dog. She could not 
go on without first making sure that he was not 
lying wounded. But the Circle B raiders had vented 
their spite on the sheep-herder’s friend with deadly 
thoroughness. 



Sheep 


207 


The fugitives did not again slow down from a fast 
lope until nightfall brought a fair degree of safety 
from pursuit. As the horses then scuffled along 
across country in the starlight, Mary told how the 
Circle B men had crept upon Joe when he was cutting 
posts for his desert-claim fence. 

Miles farther along Limpy made his comment on 
the matter : 

66 If Pari hadn’t tried to be so smart in sliding out 
from under, and getting Aunt Ki in on the lynching, 
the kid would sure have got hisn. Just happened, 
Pari was so slick he slipped up on hisself — just 
like his first try, down at the lower drift fence. All 
the same, first time was a mighty tight squeeze, and 
this time was nigh as close. Best let it go at that, 
kid. Third time’s the charm. Y’know now you 
can’t buck a big outfit like Parl’s all by your lone¬ 
some. Thay’s heaps of range greener than the 
Yamparos.” 

From the darkness ahead Joe’s voice called back 
with grim cheerfulness: 

u They have still to show me I’m a quitter. I’m 
going to give Pari enough rope to hang himself. 
Savvy? We stand pat. No bunch of coyotes is 
going to run us off our land. What say, Mary?” 

“ It’s our home, even if they have burned the 
cabin,” rang out the voice of Mary, no less resolute. 



CHAPTER XXI 


ACCOUNTS SETTLED 

O NLY a few days later Joe and Mary headed 
back from the railroad. Joe’s appointment 
as a Government hunter had given him credit for 
buying wolf traps, two bed-rolls, a new rifle and 
silencer, a pistol, riding togs for Mary, and enough 
provisions to complete a heavy pack for the mare. 

Though only one at a time could ride, they covered 
the long miles back to their homestead almost as 
fast as if both had been mounted. They traveled 
“ride and tie” according to the very old pioneer 
practice. One would lope ahead, leave the pony and 
mare to graze, and walk on. The other, coming up 
afoot, would mount and, in turn, lope ahead, to jump 
off and walk again. By this method each alternately 
had a rest in the saddle, the horses were given time 
to both eat and rest, and much ground was covered 
in a day. 

When they reached their homestead they found 
that the raiders, after slaughtering the sheep, had 
come back to complete the work of destruction. The 
wagon, with the flour barrel and kitchen table, had 
been backed alongside the flaming wall of the cabin. 
The fire-rusted tires and other ironwork showed red 
amidst the gray ashes and black ends of charred 
wood. 


Accounts Settled 


209 


All the way around the homestead claim the fence 
wires were cut to pieces. The smaller posts had been 
snapped off. The spring had been polluted with the 
carcass of a sheep. The horse corral was now only 
a high stack of rails and uprooted posts. A charred 
spot showed where the edge of the pile had been 
set alight; but the fire, being ill-placed, had failed 
to spread and burn the stack. 

Joe cleaned the spring while Mary cached most 
of the food in a dry hole part way up the crag that 
Joe had used for a lookout point. They then built 
a very small cabin with corral rails and spruce 
boughs. Set in the midst of the dense spruce thicket, 
the building was hidden from anyone except a close 
searcher. Yet when the time should come for Joe to 
prove up, the little cabin would enable him to swear 
to continued occupancy of his claims. 

During the week that they put in at this work 
they took care to keep themselves and their horses 
under cover. Mary was no less determined than Joe 
to hold the claims. For that very reason she had 
persuaded him to avoid another raid from, the Circle 
B men. This could be done only by keeping their 
residence on the land a secret. At the right time 
they could rely upon Limpy and Swede to act as 
their witnesses in the proving up. 

After finishing their hidden new home, they struck 
off westwards into the hills. With the lessened pack 
divided between the two horses, both were able to 
ride. Joe took care to circle around to windward of 
the box canon into which the raiders had driven his 



Branded 


210 


sheep. Fortunately the canon ran down the south 
ridge on the side opposite the creek. Otherwise, for 
a long time to come, the waters of the little stream 
would have been polluted after every heavy rain. 

Well back in the hills Joe set about his work as 
Government hunter. For months Parlen had been 
writing bitter complaints to the Association about 
the continued devastations of Splay Foot. The au¬ 
thorities probably thought the killer of old Gotch 
Ear a good man to send after her still more murder¬ 
ous daughter. They had granted Joe’s request to be 
assigned to the Yamparo region. 

A thorough search north of the divide failed to 
locate any trace of the she-wolf and her new mate. 
Joe became convinced that the pair had not yet been 
run back north since their last shift to the Circle B 
range. He did not know about that howling of the 
she-wolf on their trail when he and Mary eloped. 
As neither he nor Mary had any fancy to come in 
contact with Parlen or his riders, they kept clear 
of the Circle B, and roved in and out among the 
Yamparos, hunting and camping. 

The life, though hard, was healthful and interest- * 
ing. With Mary to cook and help in various other 
ways, Joe was able to give all his attention to trap¬ 
ping and tracking. They visited their homestead 
only when short of food. This was not often, for 
rabbits were plentiful in the hills, and the streams 
that headed among the snow peaks of the high moun¬ 
tains swarmed with trout. Mary jerked out many 
messes of speckled beauties with a line of braided 



Accounts Settled 


211 


horsehair and a hairpin hook on a leader of catgut 
made by Joe. 

Once they happened to be out of food when Joe 
jumped a young mountain lion. He had once heard 
that the old-time trappers preferred cougar meat 
to all other kinds. At his dare, Mary ventured to 
cook some. It proved to be the tenderest and best- 
flavored game they had ever eaten. After this they 
lived still more on the country, Mary supplementing 
the meat diet with fireweed, sorrel, king’s crown, and 
other greens. 

They found they could go without bacon, sugar 
and flour, and even coffee. But when their home 
cache ran short of salt and Joe used up all his rifle 
cartridges, they had to head for town. With them 
they took enough coyote, wildcat and mountain lion 
scalps to prove to the Biological Survey that Joe 
had been far from idle. 

His salary checks were waiting for him at the 
postoffice. After paying his debts, he could have at 
once bought a pack-load of supplies and started 
back for the hills. But Mary needed the rest of a 
change from camp life. One of her former school 
chums begged her to stay for a week’s visit. They 
had a delightful six days of sewing on small gar¬ 
ments. 

Joe spent most of the week at the ranch of a big 
sheep owner, out east in the dry mesa district. When 
he came back to town his plans were all made for 
the next spring. But until then he would have to 
stick to his Government hunter position. Though 



Branded 


212 


with the coming of cold weather the hunting would 
now be far harder than range riding, he did not 
propose to lose his hold on his claims. Mary proved 
no less determined. She refused the invitation of her 
friend for an all-win ter visit. 

On the last day of the visit Joe started out, rather 
heavy-hearted, to buy their supplies. As he neared 
the bank Kiowa came out, high-headed and tight- 
jawed with anger. Over the peak of her old hat 
Parlen smiled with smug satisfaction. His eyes 
shifted sideways to take in. the approaching man. 
Their cool gaze rose from Joe’s belt to his face, and 
suddenly fixed in a wide stare. The smile froze. 

At the same moment Kiowa saw Joe. She turned 
her back on him and walked off towards the hotel, 
leaving Parlen entirely unsheltered. He started to 
shrink back into the bank. Joe, somber-eyed, 
crooked a finger at him. 

“Wait a minute, you! This is luck! Easiest 
place I could find for you to pay what’s owing to 
me.” 

“What’s owing?” mumbled Parlen. 

“Yes. Hold on. Don’t go in till we reach an 
agreement. When you pass that door it’ll be to 
draw me a check in payment for two hundred sheep, 
one collie, a cabin and furniture, one pistol, one rifle 
with silencer, horse corral, wagon, and three miles 
of fence wire.” 

“You’re joking! I don’t owe you anything. I’m 
not responsible. I can prove I was on my way to 
Denver.” 



Accounts Settled 


213 


“ The Circle B did it — your men. No, stand still, 
if you know what’s good for you. Keep your hands 
in front.” 

The reckless flash in Joe’s eyes checked his cousin’s 
attempt to signal with his hands behind his back. 
Joe went on somberly: 

“ I’m not after damages. Fair pay is all I want. 
Twenty-five hundred will let you down easy.” 

“ Twenty-five hundred! ” The bare suggestion cf 
such a loss nerved Parlen to renewed resistance. 
44 You can’t prove I’m legally responsible. It will 
be a jury of cowmen, not sheep-herders!” 

Joe’s look became still more hard and reckless. 

44 This case isn’t going to any jury. Shell out.” 

Before the stare in those ruddy brown eyes, Par- 
len’s gaze wavered and sank. It saw the lean brown 
hand of his cousin go down and backwards. 

44 Don’t — don’t shoot, Joe. I’ll pay.” 

44 Thought so. Now we’ll go in, and you’ll take 
care to make no wrong moves. You and your men 
have got me used to the idea of nooses. Savvy?” 

Parlen sidled into the bank, with Joe at his elbow. 
The two bank officials in sight and a lone customer 
looked surprised to see the cousins together. But 
neither Parlen nor Joe betrayed any excitement. 
They kept side by side, with almost affectionate 
closeness, at the customers’ writing shelf and across 
to the teller’s window. 

The writing on the back of the check in Parlen’s 
hand won another glance of surprise and curiosity 
from the teller. It certified that the check was 




214 


Branded 


a compromise payment for property of the payee 
destroyed by agents of the payor. Parlen had signed 
this statement above the endorsement of Joe. 

Neither cousin said anything until the teller had 
handed out the two thousand five hundred dollars in 
fifties. Joe pocketed the bank notes, and flipped out 
the new automatic pistol that he had bought after 
the raid. Parlen shrank back. Joe gave him a 
derisive glance, and grinned in at the startled teller. 

“ ’Sail right, mister man. Needn’t throw up. I 
don’t ever carry it loaded in town. Just wanted 
to show you the easy action.” 

He shucked the cylinder and snapped the trigger 
half a dozen times in rapid succession. From Par- 
len’s throat came a choking sound that gargled and 
burst out in a snarling curse. He clutched the hilt 
of his own pistol. Joe kicked. The pistol went 
spinning across the floor of the bank. As Joe dodged 
his cousin’s rush, he thrust his empty automatic back 
into its holster. 

Parlen whirled for another rush. Loss of the 
twenty-five hundred dollars had more than outraged 
his feelings. He had given up the money only 
through fear of instant death. But Joe had added 
insult to the injury. He had won on a mere bluff. 
There had been no need to pay. Realization of the 
fact goaded Parlen into a fury that burst all the 
restraints of his habitual prudence. He would first 
beat his cheater to a pulp, and then take back the 
money. 

The second time Joe did not dodge. His mind 



Accounts Settled 


215 


flamed with the fiery remembrance of Mary’s burn¬ 
ing home — of Mary struggling in the grasp of the 
Circle B ruffians while the leaders of the gang made 
ready to lynch him. 

He reeled back before the shock of Parlen’s taller, 
heavier body. Parlen lunged again to clutch him 
fast. But the disadvantage was only momentary. 
Joe’s muscles were wiry as a gray wolf’s and lithe 
as a wildcat’s. He writhed out of Parlen’s savage 
clinch and knocked him down with an upper-cut. 
f Three times the big owner of the Circle B scram¬ 
bled to his feet and rushed. Each time Joe took 
all that his cousin had to offer, and smashed back 
with swift punches that sent him down again. After 
the fourth fall Parlen rolled over but did not at¬ 
tempt to get up. 

“ Come on, you quitter,” taunted Joe. “I’m just 
getting warmed up.” 

A number of men were crowding in at the door 
of the bank. The desperate glance of Parlen’s puff- 
ing eyes fixed upon these staring spectators. He 
spat out a tooth and opened his cut lips to cry 
murder. Joe beat him to it. 

“’Sail over, gentlemen. Just a private family 
settlement of scores. No shooting. We weren’t even 
loaded. At least, I wasn’t. Was I, Pari?” 

With the question Joe’s pistol flipped out and 
snapped with the shoving of a clip of cartridges into 
the magazine. A swift shuck of the cylinder popped 
the top cartridge into the barrel. 

“That’s all, gentlemen. Just a private squaring 




216 


Branded 


of accounts. Wasn’t it, Pari? We’ve evened up all 
around, and we’re ready to call quits, aren’t we? — 
Or do you first want me to tell all about it ? ” 

To Parlen’s dread of that wavering automatic was 
added the fear of ridicule. Joe had his witness to 
prove that the pistol had not been loaded. If the 
truth leaked out, the whole Yamparo country would 
laugh at the owner of the Circle B. 

Parlen staggered to his feet and offered a seem¬ 
ingly cordial hand. 

“You win, kid. I’m willing to call it quits, if 
you are. I can’t blame my men for hazing your 
sheep outfit. They’re cowboys. I was away and had 
nothing to do with it. But I want everybody to 
know that I have paid you in full for all the dam¬ 
ages.” 

Joe neither smiled nor took the proffered hand. 

“No,” he replied. “I’ve compromised with you, 
and the account is settled. All the same, that does 
not mean you have paid in full. Your bill of sale 
for the whole Circle B wouldn’t half pay for the way 
your coyotes hazed Mary.” 

“But, Joe, you’ve just said-” 

“Yes, that’s ended. We’re starting a new deal. 
You thought you had run me off my land. Right 
here and now I’m giving you public notice that I 
haven’t relinquished my claims. Have you anything 
to say?” 

With one battered eye to the crowd, Parlen re¬ 
plied in a very mild tone: 

“Nobody can deny the legal right of nesters to 




Accounts Settled 


217 


straddle any water they find unappropriated. What 
riled my boys was your bringing sheep into cow 
country.” 

Fully half the crowd inside the door were cowmen 
or punchers. Joe saw their faces darken. He was 
not to be caught so easily. 

“Who’s been over-stocking the divide to crowd 
off the Seven Up?” he asked. “Who sneaked in 
and bought Aunt Ki’s leased hay land?” 

Parlen was little more popular in town than had 
been their uncle. Joe saw the faces of the onlookers 
unbend to mirth over his return jab. He took his 
opportunity to push out through the melting crowd. 

With the twenty-five hundred dollars in his 
pocket, he hastened to tell Mary of a change in their 
plans. She was to accept the invitation of her friend 
and remain as a paying guest until spring. 

Mary only smiled at him. He dwelt upon the pri¬ 
vations and dangers of winter hunting in the hills. 
She put on her camp clothes. 



CHAPTER XXII 


BLIZZARD BLESSINGS 

D URING their trip out both rode all the way. 

Joe had used what was left of his Govern¬ 
ment pay to buy a pack horse. All the bank notes 
of Parleys twenty-five hundred dollars “ settlement ” 
nestled in Mary’s pocket. She had agreed with Joe 
that if the money were put in a bank Parlen might 
tie it up with a lawsuit. 

Out at their homestead they stuffed the notes into 
an empty baking-powder can. The can was cached 
a foot deep under the stone-and-adobe fireplace that 
Joe built in the corner of the little cabin. 

This fireplace made their rude hut a home that 
would be cozy in the worst of winter blizzards. The 
floor was already covered with coyote and lion skins 
brought in during their first months of hunting. 
Enough were left over to make a thick mattress on 
the pole bunk. 

Joe sought to persuade Mary to remain at the 
cabin, where she could be comfortable. He even 
ordered her to stay. She wept and clung-to him 
and said she would die of loneliness if she could not 
keep with him. After that he could not refuse to 
take her. But he had his work to do. Provisioned 
for a month’s stay, they struck back into the hills. 
Within the first week they met with a spell of 
218 


Blizzard Blessings 


219 


cold fall rains that turned to sleet. Even slickers 
and chaps failed to keep out the damp chill. Still 
Mary did not complain. The wet cold was made 
endurable by the small tarpaulin tent that Joe had 
bought for winter camping. All that she asked was 
to be permitted to remain with him. 

After Squaw Winter came Indian Summer, de¬ 
lightful even in the midst of the ragged craggy bad¬ 
lands of the Yamparos. Clouds rolled on the snow 
peaks of the sierra. But every day the sun poured 
down balmy warmth upon the golden aspens of the 
hill canons and the riot of scarlet and crimson foliage 
along the scraggy slopes. The nights were only 
pleasantly crisp. 

When the time came to return to the cabin for 
more food, Mary refused to stay. Yet before they 
could set out on their second trip, a snow storm 
struck down from the mountains across the Yam¬ 
paros. By the time the flakes ceased falling, Mary 
had made herself a hooded skin shirt not unlike an 
Esquimo parka. 

The snow gave Joe his first perfect tracking 
weather. This time he worked slowly westward, 
picking a way along the ridges to avoid the deep 
drifts in the ravines and canons. 

Far over near the high mountains he found what 
he was looking for — a set of huge wolf footprints 
that showed a splayed forepaw. Another set, almost 
as large, told that Splay Foot’s latest mate had 
escaped the rifles of the Circle B riders. 

At last Joe was on the trail of the quarry that 



Branded 


<M0 


had won him his position as Government hunter. 
His work now was to justify his selection for the 
task of running down the craftiest and most murder¬ 
ous of lobo stock-killers ever known in the Yamparo 
country. 

With Mary along, the task was doubly hard. Dur¬ 
ing the warm months she had been of great help 
in his hunting. Now she proved a great hindrance. 
He could not take any chances of her horse slipping 
on icy slopes or snow-hidden rocks. The way had 
to be picked with utmost care. Often a long circuit 
was necessary around crags and ravines among 
which Splay Foot and her mate had bounded with 
ease. 

Another snowstorm blotted out the trail. As 
soon as travel became possible, they struck camp 
and started southeast. The going Was slower and 
harder than even the worst that had come before. 
They spent a bitter cold Thanksgiving night in 
Gotch Ear’s old cave. From there they worked 
around the canons and crags to the runway ridge 
where Joe had trapped and out-fought the older she- 
wolf’s still more murderous daughter. But Splay 
Foot had not returned to her run. 

The long, twisting circuit back through the hills, 
west and north, and out to the cave and runway, 
had taken weeks of heart-breaking exertion and 
hardship. Mary’s face was thin and drawn. Under 
her sunken blue eyes were black circles. Only a little 
deer meat was left in the pack sacks. 

Even Joe’s stubborn determination had reached 



Blizzard Blessings 




the breaking point. He gave up the search for 
Splay Foot and headed for the cabin. They came 
down the divide on the afternoon of a bleak, gusty 
day. Storm clouds swirled low on the mountains. 

Mary was in urgent need of shelter. Joe hurried¬ 
ly led the way to the crest of the last ridge that shut 
them off from their home creek. They looked down 
into the little valley. From amidst the spruces that 
hid their hut-cabin dense smoke was rolling low over 
the evergreen spires. 

Two men rode out of the spruce thicket and 
started to cross the creek. Joe’s eyes, trained to 
distant vision, recognized Hooch Huggins and Mex 
Chavez. He jerked his rifle out of its boot and 
opened fire. At his second shot, Hooch swayed so 
violently that he almost pitched over his horse’s 
head. He clutched his saddlehorn and spurred the 
broncho into a dead run. 

Another shot knocked the Mexican’s big sombero 
from his black head. lie raced away even more 
wildly than his mate. A dry click followed the next 
jerk of Joe’s trigger. His rifle was empty. Before 
he could reload, the raiders had made off behind the 
cover of the rock comb where Pari had once sought 
shelter. 

A pitiful cry forced Joe’s attention back to Mary. 
He got the horses down the ridge side as fast as 
safety permitted. The first blasts of the coming 
blizzard swirled down the valley. 

Close to the burning hut Joe slashed the pack 
rope and pitched the tent. He sprinted his mare up 



222 


Branded 


along the creek bank and climbed to the hole in the 
lookout crag. Every bit of food that they had left 
in the cache was gone. He raced back to build a 
pole fire in front of the tent and kill the pack horse. 
'Without food Mary would die. 

The blizzard struck — an Arctic gale of driven 
snow that stung like crackled glass. The bitter cold 
pierced even through Joe’s winter coat. But he 
labored on in the furious white swirl, hauling more 
rails for the fire, cutting young trees to thicken the 
natural windbreak of the spruces around the tent, 
lopping aspen boughs for horse feed. 

For two nights and a day the blizzard raged—- 
and for two nights and a day Joe fought to save the 
lives that were to him far more precious than his 
own. 

On the morning of the second day the wind lulled, 
but the snow continued to fall. It was already deep 
for riding. All through the storm Joe had kept 
Mary’s pony and his mare tied near the fire. They 
had fed well on the twigs and bark of the aspen 
boughs. 

Though Mary was far too weak to ride, Joe now 
saddled both animals. In order to mount with Mary 
in his arms, he built a pile of poles. Any unwrap¬ 
ping of the blankets from about his precious burden 
would have meant one if not two deaths. 

The going proved even harder than he had ex¬ 
pected. The horses bucked the snow drifts for hours 
before they at last managed to get down off the 
divide onto the more level ground of the lower range. 



Blizzard Blessings 


223 


After that Joe was able to work them around the 
larger drifts. But the snow continued to fall 
heavily. The pace of the tired animals became 
still slower. 

By mid-afternoon Joe had twice shifted to the 
pony and back upon the mare. After the third shift 
the almost exhausted pony lagged behind. Dusk 
found the mare staggering along the drift-covered 
round-up road, around the bend of the hill from 
which Joe had seen Parlen go to torment the captive 
she-wolf. The snow was falling too fast for him to 
see even as far as the feed sheds. But he knew the 
hill, and called encouragingly to the mare. 

From back around the hill, as if in devilish mock¬ 
ery of his reviving hope, came the frightful yells of 
gray wolves closing upon their quarry. He dug his 
spurs into the heaving flanks of the mare and freed 
his gun hand from, its mitten. But then, rising 
above the clamor of the wolves, he heard the death- 
scream of the pony. He eased down the wild plunges 
of the mare to a steady floundering. 

The drifts of the last mile came near to seeing 
an end alike to horse and riders. The mare was 
ready to drop when, at the corner of the feed sheds, 
a final desperate plunge broke through a high drift 
into a beaten path. Down the open way she tottered, 
through the gray dimness of the falling snow. 

Suddenly, close before him, Joe saw the faint 
gleam of a window. He swung off, groped his way 
to the door, and burst into the kitchen. 

Kiowa was at the table, dishing up supper to 



Branded 


224, 


Limpy and Swede and Rocker. At the crash of the 
in-flung door, all turned to stare at the shapeless 
snow-covered figure that staggered in out of the 
storm. Joe stood swaying, too utterly outspent to 
speak. 

At a tart command from Kiowa, Swede lurched 
up to shut the door. As he passed he peered under 
Joe’s down-drooped hat brim. 

“Huh!” he grunted. “You—kid! Miss Mary 
— she ain’t-” 

The door slammed shut with the kick of his big 
boot. His powerful arms supported Joe and his 
burden to the bench. 

“ Hold on,” cried Kiowa. “ I don’t run a hostelry 
for sheepi-herders. Even a cow shed’s too good 
for-” 

Joe had flung the upper wrapping from about 
Mary’s golden head. Her face was deathly white. 
Kiowa gasped and qualified: 

“A woman’s a woman — even if she’s been a miser- 
’ble disobedient ingrate. She can stay — but only 
if she sends you packing. I’ll take her in on that 
one condition. She’s to come back to me for good, 
and have no more truck with you, you ornery sheep- 
herder ! ” 

Mary’s sunken eyelids fluttered and opened. Her 
blue eyes murmured a despairing appeal: 

“No, Gran’ma! No, no! If he goes, we must go, 
too — we must! ” 

“We?” scoffed the old woman. 

“Yes —I and-” 






Blizzard Blessings 


225 


Feebly Mary sought to lift up above the edge of 
the blankets that which lay on her bosom. From 
the midst of the close bundle came a tiny muffled wail. 
Kiowa turned as if lashed across the face the way 
she had lashed Mary. 

An instant later she flung herself at the unbidden 
guests. She plucked the fur-swathed baby out of 
its mother’s arms. 

“You lazy gawks!” she shrilled at her men. 
“ Hop to it, Swede! — yank in her bed. Cram the 
firebox, Rocker. You, Limpy, slam that fresh milk 
on the stove! ” 

As the men jumped to obey, the baby squirmed in 
its great-grandmother’s close grasp. A tiny fist 
thrust out and clutched fast hold of her skinny finger. 
No question but that the child was very much alive. 
The great-grandmother snuggled it tenderly to her 
withered breast, and whirled to jerk her rocker 
around beside Joe. He eased Mary down into the 
chair, and pitched over on the floor. 

Kiowa had grasped a cup of coffee. She held it 
to Mary’s lips. Mary turned her head to look down 
at Joe. 

“Him — first,” she whispered. “If you’ll not, I 
don’t want to — to live.” 

Joe managed to pull himself up on his elbow. 

“No, Mary,” he urged. “Think of the baby. 
You must stay and care for him and-” 

“Him!” broke in Kiowa. “It’s a boy, is it?” 

“Yes— If only you’ll care for him and Mary, 
Aunt Ki! I’ll leave — just as soon as I can get up. 




226 


Branded 


Only, I can’t go far tonight. My mare’s all in.” 

The old woman doubled over to thrust the coffee 
cup under his nose. 

“ Choke your fool gab with that! Never did think 
you had a lick of sense. You ain’t even got the 
savvy to know my great-grandson’s pa belongs to 
the Seven Up.— Hey, you, Rocker, chase out and 
hustle Joe’s mare to the bam. All the oats she’ll 
eat, and rub her down till your arm falls off. She’s 
brought home my children.” 

Mary smiled and went off into a faint. 

In past the door opened by Rocker came the deso¬ 
late howl of a wolf. Limpy grabbed Kiowa’s old 
shotgun off the antlers and hopped out after the 
half-wit wrangler to the shivering, exhausted mare. 
Strengthened by the hot coffee, Joe tottered to his 
feet. 

44 Wake up, Mary,” he called. 44 Your pet is sere¬ 
nading you.” 

Mary’s eyelids did not open. But her lips quiv¬ 
ered with a hysterical whisper: 

44 Good luck! good luck! She’s brought us good 
luck — she’s brought us home!” 



CHAPTER XXIII 


THE FAWNING WOLF 

F OOD and a day’s rest brought back all Joe’s 
strength. A week of loving care put Mary 
well along on the road to recovery. Born and bred 
in the open, she possessed perfect health, and her 
power of endurance had been doubled by the months 
of rough camping and hard riding among the Yam- 
paros. What she had gone through during the 
blizzard would have killed any city girl. But her 
vitality was so great that she fairly rebounded from 
tne black depths of the Valley of the Shadow. 

Never in all her life had she been so happy. The 
baby shared her vitality. Despite his harsh recep¬ 
tion into the world, he throve like a Hereford calf. 
Old Kiowa hovered over him as if she were a mother 
hen with one chick. This did not surprise Mary. 
Like any normal mother, she believed that her baby 
was the most wonderful child in all the world. 

Nor was she much surprised over her grand¬ 
mother’s tender bullying of herself. It was only a 
revival of their relations during her childhood. But 
the old cow-woman’s manner towards Joe marked a 
vast change. The hated intruder and sheep-herder 
had suddenly become the man of the Seven Up. 

Half measures were not in Kiowa’s nature. She 
did not stop at mere toleration of Joe as one of the 


228 


Branded 


hands. She accepted him as Mary’s husband. He 
therefore was her grandson — a member of the 
family in full fellowship. 

What counted even more with Mary, her grand¬ 
mother at once started in to wrangle with Joe over 
the management of the Seven Up as if he were an 
equal partner. Though the old Tartar scoffed at his 
advice and opinions, she kept asking for them. She 
demanded that he offer plans to put the Seven Up 
back on its feet. 

Bit by bit she let out how she had dickered with 
Parlen. She even told of her last agreement to help' 
him win Mary, in return for a long lease on the hay 
land. His eagerness had been so great that he had 
taken her note in payment of the right to cut the last 
crop of hay. But he had cannily refused to sign any 
lease until sure of Mary. 

That deal was now, of course, all off. What few 
beef steers she had to sell had brought in only enough 
to pay running expenses. The note to Parlen would 
fall due the first of the year. What was to be done 
about it? 

Joe told of the money that he and Mary had 
cached in the baking-powder can, under the fireplace 
of their little cabin. During the blizzard he had 
been far too intent upon saving Mary and the baby 
to think of digging up the can. The twenty-five 
hundred dollars would more than pay off the note 
to Parlen. 

A heavy thaw, followed by a dry cold-snap, made 
a horseback trip to the divide fairly easy. Joe and 



The Fawning Wolf 


229 


Limpy went to fetch the cached money. They found 
the tarpaulin tent crushed down by the snow, but 
otherwise as Joe and Mary had left it. 

While Limpy packed the camp outfit, Joe dug the 
snow away from the base of the broken chimney. In 
the fireplace he came upon a coverless baking-powder 
can. It was crushed and fire-rusted and empty. 
Joe started to chop the frozen ground. His belt ax 
plunged down into a hole full of wood ashes. Before 
burning the little cabin, Huggins and Chavez had 
found and robbed the cache. 

Limpy said nothing against Joe’s announcement 
of his next move. All he did was to put the sixth 
cartridge into his old 44 smoke wagon.” 

They made the Circle B ranch mid-morning of the 
next day. All the men not out on the range were 
working down at the corrals. Joe and Limpy circled 
to the trees from which the assassin had shot. Taylor 
Brent. From the trees they crossed to the house 
and walked in without warning. 

Parlen sat at a home-made desk in the kitchen, 
balancing his account books for the year. When 
he looked up and saw his visitors, his face went white 
and his head scrouged between his shoulders. 

“ What d’you want ? ” he demanded. 44 What you 
doing here?” 

Joe drove straight at the point: 

44 Came to collect again that twenty-five hundred 
you paid me in town. Shell out. I know you have 
it — all except the split you gave Hooch and Mex 
for stealing it when they burnt my second cabin.” 



230 


Branded 


Parlen shoved his open bank books along the desk 
top. 

44 You’re on the wrong trail. Look at my bank 
account. Search me — and the house. I didn’t even 
know you had been burned out again. My orders to 
all my men were to shy clear of the divide until the 
spring round-up.” 

44 So you say.” 

44 It’s the honest truth, Joe. We called it quits 
and accounts squared, there in town. I’ve been liv¬ 
ing up to my side of the agreement. Look for your¬ 
self. You’ll find I haven’t had anything to do with 
the steal. Ask my men. I fired Huggins and Chavez 
just before the big blizzard. They headed south. 
That’s all I know about it.” 

Joe showed his faith in his cousin’s word by frisk¬ 
ing him, examining the bank books, and searching 
the house. Their uncle’s room had been closed up 
ever since the murder. When Parlen unlocked the 
door, Joe saw that the desk and chair were gone. 
Boards covered the lower part of the window from 
which had been taken the sash with the bullet-drilled 
pane of glass. A thick layer of dust covered the bed 
and the dark stains that Limpy knew were on the 
floor. 

Brent’s strong-box had been shifted from its hid¬ 
ing place to a still more secret hole in Parlen’s room. 
At Joe’s quiet order, Parlen opened the hole and un¬ 
locked the box. In it were only a few small bank 
notes. Joe thrust them back into their tray. 

44 Guess you’re one too many for me—this time.” 



The Fawning Wolf 231 


“ I gave it to you straight, Joe. You know it 
now,” replied Parlen. He smiled and offered his 
hand. “You’ll stop over-night. Your old cot was 
so rickety that I threw it out. No need, though, for 
you to go to the bunk-house. You can have Uncle 
Lor’s room.” 

“Lord A’mighty, no! — not for him!” shrilled 
Limpy. “ S’pose you give the kid your cot, and go 
in there your ownself.” 

Parlen’s smile tightened. He closed and locked 
the door of the death room. 

“ I’ll call in Curley and have him lay out what cold 
chuck he has on hand — if you don’t wish to stay 
for supper.” 

“We can make the back trail without any of your 
chuck,” replied Joe. “ Come on, Limpy.” 

The Circle B men saw as little of the visitors going 
as of their coming, and Parlen evidently thought best 
to take no action. Nobody trailed after the Seven 
Up riders. 

The saddlebags of the visitors were empty, but Joe 
did not care. He had no hankering for the flesh-pots 
of the Circle B. That night he and Limpy turned in 
supperless. 

At dawn, as Limpy was saddling up, Joe shot a 
snowshoe rabbit. It fell on a snow drift. When 
Joe went to pick it up, he saw a shoulder sticking 
out of the snow. 

The dead man was Hooch Huggins. One 
of his pockets had been turned inside out. The 
others, like the unbuckled money-belt, were empty. 



232 


Branded 


There was no trace of his horse, nor of Mex 
Chavez. 

Until now the drift piled up by the blizzard had 
protected the body. While Joe and Limpy built a 
cairn of stones to keep off the coyotes, the old man 
grumbled an admission. 

“I got to own up Pari wasn’t lying — leastways 
not altogether. Like’s not he sent ’em to get your 
wad. But I figger, when Hooch cashed in, that 
there greaser side-kick of hisn frisked him and 
skipped the country.” 

“ It’s all the same to us,” said Joe. “ The money’s 
gone, and we can’t put it on Pari, even if Mex turned 
it in.” 

The snowshoe rabbit proved to be both thin and 
tough, and it was their last food during all the long 
ride over the back trail. But they were inured to 
privation. Whenever the pangs of hunger became 
too troublesome, they drew in their belts another 
hole. 

When at last they reached the Seven Up Joe still 
felt far too great concern over the loss of the money 
to think much of his hunger. The bad news started 
Mary to crying. But at sight of Joe’s face she 
dashed away her tears and began to predict that 
everything would come out all right. Kiowa grimly 
agreed. 

“ She’s right, son. It sure will. I stood up to 
Lor Brent all by my lonesome, and I’ve stood up to 
Pari. Never knuckled down to neither of ’em. Now 
I’ve got you for a side-kick. Don’t you fret, boy. 



The Fawning Wolf 


233 


We’ll buck through in spite of him. Just you set 
your cabeza to scheming out how we’re going to turn 
the trick.” 

Enheartened by the trust of his “ womenfolks,” 
Joe started to think out possible plans. He first 
suggested that money could be saved by laying off, 
Swede and Limpy. Much as he disliked to part with 
his friends, he knew that they could soon get on with 
some other outfit. The half-witted Rocker worked 
for his keep. Money meant nothing to him, and off 
the Seven Up he would have been lost. ^ 

The two punchers, however, refused to be let out. 

“Forget it, kid,” said Limpy. “Me and Swede 
are done set on making up for the years we had to 
feed at your uncle’s hog trough. Miss Mary’s cook¬ 
ing is doughnuts to dollars — and me and Swede 
chooses the doughnuts. Savvy?” 

“You’re white,” said Kiowa. “Tell you what, 
Joe. We’ll figger ’em a stake in the next beef sale.” 

Joe promptly calculated a percentage that Kiowa 
agreed would give all a fair gamble. This, in effect, 
made Limpy and Swede partners in the Seven Up 
for the coming year. They were top-riders. Nei¬ 
ther had ever slacked in his work. But now they 
went at it with the keen interest of owners. 

Thanks to their zeal, Joe was able to go on earn¬ 
ing his salary as a Government hunter. Owing to 
the return of Splay Foot to the Seven Up range, he 
could honestly use the home ranch as the base camp 
for his hunting. 

Unhampered by Mary, he started in again on his 



264 


Branded 


efforts to destroy the butchering she-wolf and her 
mate. There may have been a lack of game back in 
the hills. But whether or not this was the cause, the 
splay-footed cattle-killer continued to hang around 
the ranch. After every snow Joe cut the fresh trails 
of the gray she-devil and her mate — and their 
every visit meant a slaughtered cow or calf. He set 
traps with utmost care and skill; he laid out in dark¬ 
ness and storm, hopeful of a shot. 

But the once-trapped she-wolf proved still more 
crafty and wary than before her capture. Time and 
again, she saved both herself and her mate from the 
traps; and their visits were made only on moonless 
nights. Joe was given no chance for a shot. 

Most exasperating of all, after each kill Splay 
Foot serenaded the ranch with her dismal howling. 
At first Joe took this for derision of his futile ef¬ 
forts. But when he found the splay-foot tracks on 
Mary’s trail to and from the barn, he could not over¬ 
come the fancy that the ferocious beast still re¬ 
membered and craved the scent of the human who 
had saved her from suffering and death. 

Yet whatever possibility of truth there might have 
been in this odd notion, Joe became all the more de¬ 
termined to destroy the murderous gray pest and 
her mate. He at last decided to hire a pack of dogs. 

By this time Kiowa had agreed to certain changes 
that he had suggested in the methods of the Seven 
Up. A favorable spell of weather made probable a 
visit from Parlen to collect his over-due note. Kiowa 
rode to town with Joe. 



The Fawning Wolf 


235 


While waiting for the owner of the hunting pack 
to bring his dogs from the adjoining county, Joe and 
Kiowa had a brisk set-to with Mackay. Parlen had 
embittered the banker against himself by investing 
the bulk of his funds in a rival bank. But it was 
Joe’s clear-handed plans for the future of the Seven 
Up that won for him and Kiowa the loan they were 
after. 

Upon their return home with the pack owner and 
his dogs, they found Parlen waiting. He had reached 
the ranch on the day they had left, and had settled 
down to make himself agreeable. He had praised 
the baby and in every way conducted himself in such 
a respectful and friendly manner that Mary had 
quite melted from her reserve. Even old Limpy was 
beginning to admit that Pari might possibly be a 
trifle less mean than had been his uncle. 

The visitor greeted Joe and Kiowa with a smile* 
and insisted upon vigorous handshakes. 

“ Glad to see you, Aunt Ki! Same to you, Joet 
Mighty clever getting the dogs. Remember that 
time you and I and Mary got the pups of Gotch 
Ear, and just missed nailing the old she-devil herself? 
You’ll get Mary’s pup now for keeps. Ought to 
have heard her howl last night. She must have been 
right under Mary’s window.” 

“ She was, was she?” grunted Kiowa. “Why’d 
you pass up your chance, Mary, to slam a couple 
loads of buckshot out through the window?” 

“Why — I — Baby was asleep, Gran’ma.” 

The laugh over this “mother’s reason” eased off 



236 


Branded 


the chilliness with which both Joe and Kiowa had 
met the visitor. The talk centered upon pack hunt¬ 
ing until, after supper, the pack owner went to the 
bunk-house with the three hands. 

Kiowa promptly turned upon Parlen. 

“Come to collect, have you? All right. Let’s 
see my note.” 

“No, not to collect, Aunt Ki,” said Parlen. “Joe 
told me how that pair of badmen stole his and 
Mary’s money — and I’ve been talking with Mary. 
I’ll be glad to renew the note, to run until a month 
after beef round-up. Rather, we’ll draw a new one, 
to cover the principal and interest to date, along 
with an accommodation charge of, say, a hundred 
dollars. The interest is to be fourteen, instead of 
twelve per cent.” 

Kiowa puckered her lips. 

“ That’s sure mighty accommodating of you, Pari 
■—mighty! Happens, though, Mackay let me have 
double the amount, at eight.” 

“Mackay — he—” Parlen’s face darkened. His 
eyes narrowed to pin-points. 

“Why not? Y’see, I’ve got a side-kick now, and 
he’s got something more’n hair under his hat.” 

“ Sheep wool! ” snarled Parlen. 

The old woman’s face wrinkled mockingly. 

“Mebbeso, mebbe no. A bunch of woolies would 
get me my share of the divide grass you’ve hogged 
with your over-stocking. ’Tany rate, you can take 
the hay land you hornswoggled me out of, and go 
clean plumb to t’other place! ” 




The Fawning Wolf 


2S7 


“If I do, the Seven Up will follow suit. You’ve 
got to have winter feed.” 

“Don’t worry,” put in Joe. “Mackay thinks 
well enough of our plans to back us. We’re going 
to put in alfalfa, cut down our range stock, and buy 
a bunch of Shorthorn milkers. That will mean both 
beef and butterfat. A light truck will run our cream 
to the railroad every week.” 

“ That’ll leave plenty of range down at the divide 
to summer-graze sheep — if it suits our notion,” 
added Kiowa. “Come on now — trot out that note. 
Here’s your cash.” 

Parlen counted the bank notes with reluctant slow¬ 
ness, and still more reluctantly cancelled the note. 
But the proceeding gave him time to get a fresh grip 
on himself. He smiled as he handed the note to Joe. 

“That puts us square again — all square. As for 
your plans, I feel sure that both you and Aunt Ki 
are too much cowmen right to bring in sheep. And 
you don’t need to put in alfalfa. I offered to lease 
the hay land to Aunt Ki. The offer still stands.” 

“But it don’t ride,” jeered Kiowa. “Alfalfa’ll 
give us cheaper food, time we’re ready for it. What’s 
more, my fences come off your hay land. We’ll 
graze it till you put up your own posts and wire.” 

The bargainer looked at Mary and forced another 
smile. 

“At least you’ll admit I’ve shown I want to get 
back on our old friendly terms. I own up I have 
made some mistakes. But, Aunt Ki, you at least 
oughtn’t to blame me. It was your backing that 



238 


Branded 


got me in bad with Joe and Mary.” 

44 Shucks! ” muttered the old woman. 44 Why drag 
in a dead hoss ? Le’s chuck all that over our shoul¬ 
ders. Only you’ll find that sheep proposition ain’t 
any joke ’fyou don’t quit over-stocking the divide.” 

A politely masked yawn from Joe brought the 
visitor to his feet. He shook hands all around and 
went to look at the baby before going to the bunk- 
house. Kiowa slammed the door and slid the thick 
wooden bar into its socket. 

Alone with Joe in their room, Mary snuggled the 
baby tight in her arms and drew the blanket curtain 
close over the little window. Joe noticed the old 
shotgun lying across the bed. As he moved it to 
the corner, Mary explained in a hushed murmur : 

44 1 didn’t shoot, because — because it was like 
having a watch dog. I felt — safer.” 

44 You mean that he-” 

44 No, oh, no, Joe! He didn’t do a thing. Be¬ 
sides, he showed himself so friendly tonight and 
willing to make up. It was only my fancy. But 
just the same, it was a comfort having her out 
there.” 





CHAPTER XXIV 


LIERS-IN-WAIT 

J OE awoke with an odd feeling of gratefulness 
towards Splay Foot for having given Mary that 
assurance of safety. But this in no degree lessened 
his determination to destroy the she-wolf and her 
mate. 

At dawn he avoided a parting handshake from 
Parlen by setting off with Limpy and Swede and the 
pack owner. The pack was made up of seven Aire¬ 
dales for tracking and a pair of Russian wolfhounds 
for view running. 

By sunrise the dogs were on the most recent trail 
of Splay Foot and her mate. It wound around 
through the lower hills to where the gray killers had 
pulled down a young buck. From there they had 
circled out upon the lower range, hopeful, no doubt, 
that clouds would darken the quarter moon and so 
enable them to come in to the ranch for calf meat, 
without danger of being shot. 

This out-running trail gave promise of good luck 
to the hunters. Though the behavior of the dogs 
showed that it was several hours old, Joe felt sure 
the lobo mates were still down away from the hills. 
He and Swede and Limpy at once lined far out on 
each side of the trail, leaving the pack owner to 
ride with his dogs. The line was wide enough to 
239 


$40 


Branded 


net the gray mates if they should attempt any sud¬ 
den doubling back. 

An hour’s steady loping brought the hunters 
around a wide sweep south and east and then north¬ 
west to the coulee, less than half a mile north of the 
ranch-house. Among the thickets in the wide bed 
of the coulee the Airedales burst into a yelping 
racket that told they had struck fresh trail. 

Joe sprinted his mare across the coulee and up 
over the ridge on the north side. Nearly half a 
mile away he saw two gray forms streaking towards 
the hills. They were so close to cover that he barely 
had time to take a flying dismount and fire one shot. 
The rear wolf whirled over, but instantly bounded 
up and leaped from sight after its mate. 

The dogs, however, had reached the ridge top as 
soon as Joe. As he hop-mounted and dug his spurs 
into the mare’s flanks he saw the yelling pack dash 
down the ridge slope. The wolfhounds were already 
many lengths in the lead. Unable to follow a trail 
by scent, they had been compelled to tail behind the 
Airedales. But one glimpse of the quarry had now 
sent them racing ahead. They dropped the other 
dogs to the rear as a thoroughbred running horse 
would outdistance a cart nag. 

The speed of the big, slim, shaggy hounds was 
tremendous — equal almost to the panic flight of a 
pronghorn antelope. Yet Joe did not count very 
surely upon their success. The nearest spurs of the 
hills were less than three miles away, and the wolves 
might be able to run under cover. The hounds would 



Liers-in-W ait 


Ml 


then have to wait for the Airedales to lead along the 
trail. 

The best chance was that the wolves might swing 
off sideways or double back. Joe raced the mare at 
top speed, keeping well out on his side of the trail. 
He soon came opposite the spot where his bullet had 
bowled over the rearmost wolf. But a stiff rise be¬ 
yond compelled him to ease down the rush of the 
mare. To have blown her would have been senseless 
folly. 

They labored up over the round of the ridge. 
There were the wolfhounds, as far ahead as had been 
the wolves when first sighted—and there, only a 
hundred feet or so in the lead of the hounds, were 
two gray forms bounding into a patch of chaparral. 
The glimpse of them was too fleeting for even a shot 
from the saddle. Joe smiled as he again put the 
mare into a dead run. 

44 Brought to bay! ” he shouted. 

He had recalled the pack owner’s explanation of 
how, with gray wolves, the purpose of the hounds 
was to overtake and delay the quarry until the Aire¬ 
dales could come up. No hound could outfight even 
a yearling lobo, but now and then one might manage 
to leap across and cripple the quarry with a snap 
bite above the loins. 

Joe’s hopes soared. Beyond doubt his shot had 
slackened the speed of one of the gray mates. The 
other had lagged to keep in company. If only the 
hounds would circle the patch of chaparral and so 
head off the skulkers on the other side. No, the 



im 


Branded 


fool gangle-legs were jackrabbiting straight into the 
scrub! 

He veered towards the north side of the thicket. 
Over his left shoulder he saw Limpy and Swede, the 
pack owner, and the Airedales, all likewise racing 
for the chaparral. 

A few moments of hopeful sprinting, then back out 
of the scrub doubled one of the hounds. He came 
fleeing on three legs. Still clinging to hope, Joe 
raced on. He neared the chaparral. He sprinted 
around its right-hand edge. 

The next cover was only a short distance away. 
He did not again glimpse the gray killers bounding 
from sight. The possibility that they were still at 
bay brought him on around the far side of the 
thicket. There, just beyond an out-lying clump, lay 
the body of the other hound. 

Joe leaped off to examine the signs. The prints 
of a big outspread left forepaw in the damp sand 
told the tale. While her wounded mate bolted from 
the thicket and ran straight on to the next cover, 
Splay Foot had side-leaped and hidden behind the 
outer clump of scrub. As the leading hound broke 
cover to dash after her mate, the she-wolf had flashed 
out and slashed his throat. She had caught the 
other hound in the midst of the thick-set scrub, where 
he could not leap clear of her rush. The wonder was 
that he had escaped at all. 

When the pack owner rode up, he cursed at sight 
of the dead hound, and whooped the Airedales on 
along the trail of the killers. They needed no urg- 



Liers-in-W ait 


24S 


ing. It was a blood trail. After rather more than 
an hour of hard running up into the hills, they over¬ 
took the wounded he-wolf. 

This time Splay Foot made off and left her mate 
to his fate. Weakened though he was by the bullet 
wound, the gray devil killed two of the Airedales be¬ 
fore the others managed to tear the life out of him. 

Yelping with triumph, the slashed survivors of 
the fight dashed off again on the trail of Splay Foot. 
She had headed into the worst of the broken bad¬ 
lands. The riders could not follow the pack. They 
spread far apart and picked whatever routes their 
horses could scramble through or over. It recalled 
to Joe that day of his hot-headed boyhood when he 
and Parlen and Mary had tracked old Gotch Ear 
through this same rough part of the hills. 

Now, however, there seemed to be a possibility 
of success. The yelping of the dogs carried far 
across the crags and canons, and there was a chance 
that Splay Foot might double back within rifle range 
of one of the advancing hunters. Yet hour after 
hour passed without sight or sound of the crafty 
she-wolf. The riders even lost all sound and trace 
of the dogs. At sunset a prearranged smoke signal 
brought them together for the night’s camp. 

Dawn found them once more in the saddle. Joe 
led the party towards the old lair of Gotch Ear. 
Midway they came across the pack leader crawling 
along Splay Foot’s trail. The dog was so outrun 
that he hardly could stand. His paws were worn 
raw. The cunning she-wolf had led the pack over 



Branded 


244 


the rough rocks of ridge combs, down slides of sharp- 
edged stones, through stubby scrub, and along the 
gravel and hardpan of canon beds. 

Fed, his feet bandaged, and his wounds sterilized, 
the pack leader was able to take the back trail. 
Swede remained to help the owner gather in the 
other dogs. Joe and Limpy went on to Gotch Ear’s 
lair. Limpy circled and came up the canon. Joe 
crept along the ridge crags to the “back door.” 
They bagged nothing. The cave was empty. Its 
lack of strong odor told that it had not been used 
for a long time. 

So ended the dog chase. The pack owner had been 
given his fill of Splay Foot. Back at the ranch he 
announced his intention of leaving for home as soon 
as he could boot the paws of the Airedales. 

Though the foreleg of the crippled wolfhound had 
been mangled beyond mending, Mary at once dressed 
the wound with carbolic salve and started to put the 
shattered bone in splints. 

“ No use you fussing, ma’am,” said the owner. 
“He’s done for. Couldn’t even catch a coyote now 
— and if he did, he’d run from him. That hell-wolf 
plumb busted his spirit. I’ll just lead him off a ways 
on the road and put the poor cuss out of his mis’ry.” 

“Oh, no,” pleaded Mary. “Give him to me. I’ll 
take care of him.” 

“’Nother mouth to feed,” objected Kiowa. 

Mary smiled and went on with her surgery. She 
had a new pet and the dog kennel a new tenant. 
There was nothing more to be said. Joe had no 



Liers-in-Wait 


245 


objections. The hound had shared in the hunt that 
had given him that shot at Splay Foot’s mate. The 
he-wolf’s scalp was better than nothing. Joe sent 
it to town by the pack owner for mailing, and went 
back to his lone hunt for the wily Splay Foot. 

Three times after snow storms he worked around 
a wide circuit through the Yamparos, seeking to cut 
the she-wolf’s trail. But she seemed to have vanished. 
On his third hunt, the last week in March, he again 
visited the old lair. Splay Foot had not been near 
it. He decided that she had once more decamped 
from the Seven Up range, either back into the high 
mountains, or south to her old run on the Circle B. 

Soon after this last hunt a tinge of green began 
to show on the lower range. Joe turned his atten¬ 
tion to the trapping and poisoning of coyotes, until 
the spring round-up called for his aid. 

When the Seven Up worked south to the divide, 
they found the Circle B outfit already on hand. But 
now not only Huggins and Chavez were gone, but 
also Bill and three others who had taken part in the 
first raid on Joe’s homestead. The new men were 
friendly-spoken to the prospective owner of the Seven 
Up, and they endured Kiowa’s tart gibes with good- 
natured tolerance. 

For once the old cow-woman found little cause for 
complaint. Parlen had cleared almost all his stock 
off the divide. His camp had been pitched entirely 
away from the claims filed upon by Joe. 

The Seven Up spent their first day throwing to¬ 
gether a rough lean-to hut alongside the ashes of the 



246 


Branded 


original cabin. At evening Parlen “ dropped in” for 
a camp-fire call. Joe showed him the evergreen bunk 
and Mary’s orderly arranged outfit inside the un¬ 
finished hut. Beside the bunk was the baby in the 
old home-made cradle that had rocked Mary’s father. 

“You see we’re not camping,” Joe explained. 
“We’re living at home, on our claim. The rest are 
visiting us during the round-up.” 

Parlen smiled at Mary and chucked the baby under 
his dimpled chin. 

“ No need to tell me that, Joe. There’s room for 
all of us on this range. You needn’t lose any sleep 
over my contesting your claims. As for any more 
raids, you’ll notice I’ve rid myself of all that bunch 
of trouble hunters.” 

“Pity you didn’t fire ’em ’fore they fired Joe’s 
home,” rasped Kiowa. 

66 1 did kick out Hooch and Mex, Aunt Ki, before 
they made their second raid. With regard to that, 
I understand that Joe gathered in at least a fifty- 
per-cent collection. Limpy tells me they found and 
buried Hooch on their last trip to the Circle B. No¬ 
body mentioned it when I came to see you at the 
Seven Up.” 

“What if they did find him?” snapped Kiowa. 
“You’ve no call to put the killing on Joe. Like ’s 
not he only winged him, and Chavez saw his chance 
to get away with Huggins share in the jackpot. 
Did he put the shooting on Joe when he turned in 
to you the big end of the haul?” 

Parlen was too wary to be caught by even so 



Liers-in-W ait 


247 


adroit a query. He gravely shook his head. 

“1 of course did not know they had gone for the 
money, Aunt Ki, and Mex took care to come no¬ 
where near me. Joe found out for himself that I re~ 
ceived no part of that despicable stealing. Didn’t 
you, Joe? I’m very glad to think it was Mex, and 
not Joe, who gave Hooch what was coming to him.” 

Joe’s generosity could no longer resist his cousin’s 
insistent friendliness. His nature was not one to 
cherish past wrongs. He gripped Parlen’s cool hand. 

After this the round-up became almost a family 
affair, instead of a contest of rival outfits. Though 
few mavericks were brought in, Parlen insisted that 
half should go to the Seven Up. The final combing 
of the divide proved that he had kept his promise 
with regard to the over-stocking of the joint range. 
His little herd on the bunching-ground tallied only 
a few head more than Kiowa’s. 

When he broke camp he came for a last handgrip 
with Joe and a final chuck under the chin of the 
gurgling, cooing five-months-old baby. He even 
petted Mary’s surly three-legged wolfhound. Mary 
joined in Joe’s hearty invitation for his cousin to 
come around by way of the Seven Up whenever he 
went to town. His continued respectfulness towards 
her and his playing with the baby had at last over¬ 
come her lingering fear of him. 



CHAPTER XXV 


NIGHT PROWLERS 

I F HISTORY repeats itself, so also, sometimes, 
do the freaks of the seasons. 

Up in the old lair of Gotch Ear, her still more 
murderous daughter suckled a fatherless litter of 
young cubs. Their many little mouths were ever 
whining for more food. Never had Splay Foot been 
more ravenous. 

Since her return to the old home, May had thrown 
over the broken Yamparos a mantle of emerald-green 
velvet, studded with flower jewels. Few deer re¬ 
mained among the lower hills. They were drifting 
back to the high mountains. Small chance of venison 
even for the tireless and super-crafty Splay Foot. 

Down on the lower range the Seven Up riders con¬ 
stantly kept heading back from the hills the dimin¬ 
ished herd of Herefords. Kiowa and Joe were carry¬ 
ing out their plans. Nearly half the white-faces 
had been sold. Only cows with calves were left. 
They were being herded close in during the day, and 
penned up in the big feed corral every night. 

Had it not been for her cubs, Splay Foot would 
have come down upon the ranch every dark night. 
She knew that her stealth and cunning would save 
her from any trap or gun. Nor had she any fear 
of dogs, so far as her own safety was concerned. She 
248 


Night Prowlers 


249 


had proved that she could out-fight those strange 
long-legged runners, and then run the trackers to a 
stand. 

But the pack had trailed her even as she trailed 
deer and elk. If she should venture to go for a 
calf, she might be trailed home to her lair. The cubs 
were still too young to leave the cave. Had there 
been only one, she could have carried it with her in 
flight. As it was, pursuit by trailing dogs would 
mean death to eight of her nine grunting, squirm¬ 
ing, fuzzy offspring. 

Yet day after day her need of meat became the 
more desperate. To feed those many little mouths 
she herself must eat. Came a time when for a full 
night and a day she vainly scoured the ravines and 
ridges for game. She failed to jump so much as a 
cottontail or a sage hen. 

In the twilight she skulked back to the lair, tired 
and morose. She lay panting, tormented by the 
whining complaints of her hungry cubs. But some 
time after nightfall her acute senses, became vaguely 
aware of an impending change. 

She shook off the vainly suckling cubs and stalked 
to the upper entrance of the cave. The night was 
moonless, the air still and warm—a perfect spring 
night, with no chill to check the growth of the tender 
new grass and the unfolding of flower buds. 

Splay Foot’s greenish-yellow eyes peered up at the 
starlit sky above the distant black mass of the high 
mountains. No sign there of cloud. Yet a sense or 
intuition more subtle than any known to man con- 



850 


Branded 


firmed her first vague feeling. 

Full strength came back into her wire-drawn legs. 
She started off among the crags, directly away from 
the Seven Up ranch. As well to loaf around a wide 
circuit until absolutely certain that her trail would 
be covered. 

Down along the foot of the Yamparos, to the 
southeast of the wolf lair, another night prowler was 
skulking towards the Seven Up ranch. The hoofs 
of his big thoroughbred horse were wrapped in 
gunny sacking and rawhide. This muffled their thud 
and left no prints on the old round-up road, or, at 
most, only meaningless blurs. 

As the horse rounded the hill from which in day¬ 
time the buildings of the Seven Up could be seen, 
Parlen drew rein to peer ahead. No lights glimmered 
from the small slide windows of the ranch-houses. 

Behind the hill he had looked at the old rolled- 
gold watch that had come to him from his uncle. 
Ten o’clock had passed. The dark windows con¬ 
firmed his belief that everyone at the ranch was abed 
and asleep. If so, his one danger would be the 
crippled wolfhound. But the beast had very little 
power of scent, and he was kept at the old kennel. 
Of that Parlen had made sure during the round-up. 
With the hoof-muffles on his horse, and the night so 
dark, the hound would neither see nor hear him. 

He went on a short distance and stopped where 
the road ran over bare ledges. The rock would 
show no trace of boot prints. He slipped out of his 




Night Prowlers 


251 


saddle and felt the thoroughbred’s feet toi make sure 
the hoof-pads were all secure. He then loosened his 
pistol in its holster, transferred several matches from 
their waterproof safe- to the right hand pocket of 
his shirt, and took a bundle of gunnysacking strips 
from the near saddlebag to wrap about his boots. 

The pine tops on the crest of the hill sent out a 
sudden loud soughing. Around the slope swept a 
blast of cold wind. Parlen shivered and straightened 
up to stare at the westward sky. All stars above 
the high mountains had been blotted out. Another 
gust, still more icy than the first, chilled his coatless 
body. With it came stinging pellets of hard, fine 
snow. 

He thrust the burlap strips back into the saddle¬ 
bag and hastened to untie the thongs with which his 
slicker was lashed atop his bed-roll behind the cantle 
of the saddle. Before he had his arms in the sleeves 
of the flopping waterproof the freak blizzard was 
howling through the pine boughs. A swirl of swift- 
driven bitter-cold snow swept down upon the thor¬ 
oughbred and his rider. 

Parlen hurriedly led his horse around under the 
lee of the hill. The storm simplified his scheme — 
made it almost absolutely safe. No need now for 
foot-muffles. Without them the thoroughbred could 
run much faster. He could now feel certain of a 
safe getaway. The blizzard would cover all tracks 
even from the nose of a bloodhound. 

One after another, the wrappings of hide and bur¬ 
lap were unlashed and thrust into' the saddlebags. 



252 


Branded 


Ready for action, Parlen mounted and let the thor¬ 
oughbred drift down upon the ranch, aslant the drive 
of the blizzard. 

His plan had been to stampede the herd by firing 
the barn and feed sheds. The storm offered a more 
certain method of destruction. He would first open 
the big corral and drive out the herd. They would 
drift before the blizzard to the big coulee where the 
bank dropped off twenty feet or more. Morning 
would find most, if not all, piled up in a mangled, 
smothering mass. At the thought, gloating hate 
burned in the schemer’s veins, warming him against 
the icy blast of the storm. 

Yet that would be the least part of his vengeance 
on his cousin and old Kiowa. He would lurk in the 
barn until the herd had drifted too far to be headed 
back to safety. Then would come the firing of the 
bam and sheds and bunk-house. Easy enough to 
pick off Joe as he ran out into the glare of the burn¬ 
ing buildings. Everyone would be facing the fire. 
No one would see the flash of the rifle through the 
gray murk of the storm. The silencer would muffle 
the sound of the shot. 

No, not by any possibility could the scheme now 
fail. Every move was certain of success, and no less 
so the follow-up. He would not be seen or heard. 
The blizzard would cover his tracks. Best of all, 
they would find the horsehair reata of Mex Chavez 
looped upon a corral post, as mocking proof that 
the Mexican had come back to avenge the killing of 
his partner. 



Night Prowlers 


Then, after a few days’ wait for the news to 
spread, what more natural than that the owner of 
the Circle B should come with offers of aid for the 
Seven Up? Who would be able to say that his sym¬ 
pathy for the widow was not genuine? As for old 
Kiowa, with ruin not only staring her in the face 
but already upon her, she would have to come to heel. 
Joe being out of the way “ for keeps,” Mary would 
listen to reason. 

This time there would be no false moves — no out¬ 
bursts of passion. The owner of the Circle B would 
wait. He would say nothing of love, but much of 
friendship and the future of her child. This would 
be his line of certain approach. For the sake of the 
baby, she would- 

A lessening in the fierce drive of the blast told 
that the thoroughbred had reached and rounded the 
corner of the feed sheds. The schemer swung off, 
tied the bridle reins to the nearest rail of the corral, 
and hurried down the outer side of the big enclosure, 
one numb hand feeling along the rails for the gate. 

The howl and roar and furious swirling dimness of 
the blizzard hid from him all sight and sound of 
what the corral held within its high barrier. He had 
no slightest inkling that another prowler had taken 
advantage of the night storm — another destroyer 
as murderous as himself. 

Both history and freak weather had repeated it¬ 
self. Like her mother, Gotch Ear, Splay Foot had 
drifted down out of the hills in the thick of the spring 
blizzard, to glut her ravenous hunger upon Seven 




254 


Branded 


Up calf meat. Like her mother, she had come nosing 
to the corral, had backed off, and bounded upwards. 

The difference was that now the already high 
barrier of posts and rails had been topped with close- 
set triple strands of barbed wire. Splay Foot did 
not know of this recent addition to the corral, and 
in the dense swirl of snow even her night-piercing 
eyes could not see the wires. She struck the topmost 
strand, and rebounded as from a bowstring. 

Unexpected as was the shock, she twisted catlike 
in mid-air and landed on all four feet. Craft and 
experience sent her nosing around to the gate. Its 
new bars had been set so close together that not 
even a young coyote could have squeezed between. 
She tried another leap, and found a mesh of barbed 
wire above the bars. 

But from within the corral the gale drove into her 
quivering nostrils the rank scent of the herd, huddled 
under the lee of the feed sheds. Even in the bitter 
drive of the blizzard, her jaws drooled with slaver. 
Famine was gnawing at her shrunken stomach. 

Frantic for meat, she nosed around to the far 
side of the corral. There, with the heavy storm 
blast pushing from behind, she dashed up a gentle 
slope and leaped with her utmost skill and strength. 
It was a tremendous leap—a leap that would have 
been impossible without the buoying uplift of the 
gale. 

The out-thrust forepaws of the she-wolf shot up 
above the top of the highest strand — they shot over 
it. After them followed her huge gaunt head and 



Night Prowlers 


255 


thick forebody. Up jerked her hindquarters as her 
head went down. One leg alone grazed the wire. A 
sharp barb tore through the skin. But the leaper 
came down inside the corral feet foremost. 

In the wild uproar and confusion of the blizzard, 
a young calf had become separated from its mother. 
Blundering out from under the lee of the sheds, it 
was being shoved by the blast towards the lower side 
of the corral. 

One snap of Splay Foot’s great jaws made an end 
of the calf’s blatting distress — and its life. The 
she-wolf fell to gorging herself. She was out for 
meat, not for sport. She must feed herself with 
utmost haste, and return to feed and warm her 
young cubs. 

The storm spared her the delay of killing the calf’s 
mother. She devoured her feast with wolfish vorac¬ 
ity. Her present great hunger and her bitterly ac¬ 
quired knowledge of the famines that all too often 
followed feasts, goaded her on to glut herself to the 
utmost, even after she began to feel gorged. 

This time history did not repeat itself. Unlike 
the other May blizzard, which had blown itself out 
in the midst of Gotch Ear’s feast, the night storm 
continued to rage. 

Unable at last to devour another mouthful of the 
tender veal, the daughter of Gotch Ear swung away 
from the carcass, instantly intent upon returning to 
her hungry cubs. She ran down-wind to the lower 
end of the corral and leaped. The barbed wires 
hurled her back. She tried again, with a better take- 



256 


Branded 


off and even more spring in the jump. Again she 
struck the taut strands, and rebounded. 

After the second failure, she crouched, snarling 
with baffled fury. She was trapped — rather, she 
had trapped herself by her over-gorging. So heavy 
was she with the weight of meat she had eaten that 
she could not bound out over those stinging, un¬ 
breakable vines on the corral top. Yet what she 
could not clear in one leap, she might be able to 
climb. 

A third bound, straighter up than the others, gave 
her a hold with her forepaws on the top rail. Her 
hind paws found footing on rails below. She made 
a frantic struggle to scramble up over the wires. 
The top ones were bracketed out from the other 
strands. Joe and Kiowa had not yet bought their 
pure-bred dairy stock, but they had prepared to 
protect the expensive animals. Unable to climb 
above the overhang, Splay Foot fell back into the 
corral. 

Coyotes, and perhaps even some gray wolves, 
would have cowered in hopeless dread, or dashed at 
the walls of the great trap, frenzied with terror. 
Splay Foot started to nose along the rails, in search 
of an opening. Once, down at the Circle B ranch, 
she had sneaked out like a fox, through a hole, when 
Taylor Brent had made one of his unexpected night 
inspections of his corral. 

No need for her to get flurried. If she could find 
no hole, she had only to wait. Long before dawn the 
weight of meat in her paunch would turn to strength 



Night Prowlers 


257 


in her limbs. She would then be able to leap out of 
the trap. 

Her round of the fence brought her to the gate. 
Wild as was the swirl of snow, her piercing eyes made 
out a gap that had not been there when she nosed 
the gate from the outside. One of the bars had been 
lifted out — another one was moving. She crouched 
and waited, every nerve and muscle and sinew tense. 
The instant the opening had widened enough, she 
would leap through and dash to safety in the ghostly 
murk of the blizzard. 

Parlen dropped the freed second bar, and pulled 
out one end of the third. He swung it clear of the 
post on that side, and jerked the other end from its 
slot in the opposite post. As the end dropped, he 
glimpsed a dim shape hurling at the gap. 

In the act of rebounding from her out-leap, Splay 
Foot came near enough to leeward of Parlen to 
catch his scent. Her wolf memory may have re¬ 
tained no visual pictures of the cruelties with which 
this human had tortured her when she was chained 
to the dog kennel. She may have forgotten the 
glaring white club-end with which he had bitten that 
deep scar on her shoulder. But she had not forgot¬ 
ten the scent that meant tormenting pain and sav¬ 
age hate. 

With a ferocious snarl, she whirled in mid-air. 
Warned by the frightful cry, Parlen jerked out his 
pistol. One glimpse of the beast’s glaring eyes, a 
single wildly aimed shot —and the she-wolf hurled 
against him. 



258 


Branded 


The shock knocked the pistol out of his hand. He 
tottered over backwards, one hand and arm upflung 
to ward off her slashing fangs from his throat. His 
other hand clutched out in frantic gropings. Its 
fingers felt and gripped fast the she-wolf’s slit ear. 

He fell heavily on the wind-packed snow, dragging 
the she-wolf after him. Her long fangs had already 
ripped his arm to the bone. They slashed through 
the flesh again and again, in her fierce attempts to 
get at his throat. Her claws tore his slicker to rib¬ 
bons— ripped into his clothes and the skin of his 
body. 

He began to shriek for help. 



CHAPTER XXVI 

SPLAY FOOT’S LEAVINGS 


I N THE Seven Up bunk-house the first roar of 
the blizzard had roused Limpj and Swede. The 
big puncher had rolled out to shut the slide window. 
After that he and Limpy soon were as fast asleep as 
Rocker. 

Over in the house Kiowa and Joe and Mary had 
wakened, closed the windward windows, and drawn 
up the blankets on their beds. Joe drowsily recalled 
to Mary that in just such a freak May blizzard as 
this, old Gotch Ear had given them, their chance to 
track her and find her hole and pups. 

“ My poor old buckskin pony! ” murmured Mary. 
“Remember how I cried? But you finished Gotch 
at last — and Splay Foot can’t harm us now.” 

“If she can jump that wire, I’ll give her the 
whole herd,” offered Joe, with the certainty of one 
who bets on a sure thing. 

The stir had failed to disturb the baby in his cozy 
old cradle. As with Swede and Limpy and Kiowa, 
the very uproar of the blizzard soon lulled Joe and 
Mary back to sleep. All was snug and secure with 
them and the Seven Up. 

Of a sudden Joe found himself bolt upright in 
bed. Mary was clutching his arm. 

“Wh-what—” he muttered. 

259 


260 


Branded 


“Sh-h-h! Listen! That sound-” 

“ Only your crippled hound howling. If he’d keep 
in his kennel-” 

“No, no! I heard a shot— There! that scream¬ 
ing!” 

Joe was already rolling out. As he jumped into 
his overalls and boots Mary lit a lantern. In the 
kitchen she had the shotgun ready before he could 
jerk on his slicker. He grabbed the lantern and 
gun, and dashed out into the storm. 

Even had it been mid-day, the blinding swirl of 
snow would have shut off his view of anything a few 
paces away. But he could hear. Deafeningly as the 
storm howled and roared about the old log house, it 
brCrUgkc down on its blast, with blood-curdling dis¬ 
tinctness, the savage snarls of the she-wolf and the 
shrieks of the terrorized man whose throat she was 
seeking to rip open. 

Joe rushed straight into the drive of the blizzard, 
holding the shotgun reversed to keep the snow from 
clogging the muzzles of the twin barrels. As he ran 
he shouted at the top of his lungs as often as he 
could catch his breath in the fierce icy gusts. 

Closer and closer sounded the outcries of the 
struggling beast and man. Despite the furious at¬ 
tempts of the blizzard to slacken his rush, Joe was 
rapidly nearing the corral. The screams suddenly 
grew faint. He shouted his loudest and fired one 
barrel of the gun into the air. 

With the roar of the shot the ferocious snarls 
ceased as if the load of buckshot had riddled the 





Splay Foot's Leavings 261 


gray beast-devil. Close ahead, to the left, Joe 
fancied he saw a dim something glide swiftly aslant 
the driving snow. He swung the gun around and 
blazed away with the second barrel. But the shad¬ 
owy form had vanished, and no yelp or yell answered 
the booming report. The wolf had either been killed, 
or else had made off, unwounded. 

No time now to look. Joe rushed on. Almost at 
once he ran up against the corral gate. The three 
lower bars lay in the snow. Across them was 
stretched a writhing human form, with ripped and 
tattered clothes, and bare, slashed arms tight-clasped 
over face and throat. 

Without stopping to look at the hidden face, Joe 
heaved the heavy man up on his shoulder and ran 
staggering down-wind to the house. At his shout, 
Mary threw open the door. The blast that swirled 
in with him blew out the lamp. But his lantern still 
glowed, and old Kiowa relit the lamp the moment 
the thrust of Mary’s lithe strength closed the kitchen 
door. 

Joe laid his gasping, groaning burden face up on 
the old bench beside the table. The fang-ripped 
arms fell down on each side. The face of the 
wounded man was smeared with crimson, but it had 
not been mangled. 

“ Pari! ” cried Kiowa. 

Mary came darting with her floursack dish towels 
for bandages. 

“Oh, Joe! Is — is he-” 

“No—-arms covered his throat.” 




262 


Branded 


Kiowa ripped a towel and knotted it around the 
torn left arm. 

“Pass me my gun,” she said. “This here’s an 
artery. He’ll bleed white, ’fwe don’t get a move on.” 

But a few twists with the barrel of the old six- 
shooter in the knotted cloth stopped the spurting 
scarlet. Joe hastened to build a fire. The other 
fang slashes, which covered Parlen’s arms from hands 
to shoulders, were sterilized by Kiowa and Mary with 
carbolic acid. 

The wounded man had ceased to gasp for breath. 
But he lay moaning in a stupor that bordered upon 
delirium. He did not open his eyes until, cushioned 
and blanketed in Kiowa’s rocking chair, he felt at his 
lips the cup of coffee held to them by the hand of 
Mary. 

As he gulped down the hot drink he stared va¬ 
cantly from under half closed lids at the three anxious 
faces downbent above him. His twisted lips parted 
to let out a mumbled question: 

“’M I —done for?” 

“Lord, no,” Kiowa reassured him. “But you’re 
lucky it must have been a youngish lobo. ’Stead of 
chewing and crushing bones and all, you were only 
slashed with sharp teeth. All the bites bled clean, 
and we’ve swabbed ’em well with carbolic. If ’twasn’t 
for that, you’d be a goner, sure as shooting. Y’ought 
to know a lobo’s bite is ’most as poisonous as a 
rattler’s. Once had a calf just scratched in the skin 
by old Gotch Ear. It died of blood poison.” 

“It really was a lobo that jumped you, wasn’t 



Splay Foot's Leavings 


it ? ” asked Mary. “ J oe says the snarls-” 

Parlen’s white face flooded with angry crimson. 

“Lobo? What else d’you suppose? That damned 
Splay Foot — your pet! The she-devil! To go 
and-” 

“ Splay Foot? ” broke in Joe. “What makes you 
so sure? Easy to tell a lobo by the snarls. 
But-” 

“You’d known sure enough if you’d had hold that 
slit ear, trying to keep her teeth out of your jug¬ 
ular ! ” 

“What you so sore at us for?” queried Kiowa. 
“We didn’t bite you. Way you looked when Joe 
toted you in, that she-devil had you going. If Joe 
hadn’t made it from bed to corral in two-three jumps, 
you’d ’a’ got yours.” 

“Don’t, Gran’ma,” begged Mary. “I’m sure 
Pari didn’t mean to be cross. It’s just that he’s still 
all upset.” 

Joe chimed in with all his old-time good-humor: 

“ That’s it. Close shave, Pari. But all’s well that 
ends well. It’s Mary, though, you have to thank. 
She heard you call, and wakened me.” 

Parlen looked at Mary. His face, twisted with 
pain and still flushed and frowning, smoothed out in 
a smile. But Kiowa was not yet appeased. 

“Just a minute. Joe says he saw three bars of 
the cow corral down. I don’t Agger on even Splay 
Foot being smart as all that. You was opening the 
corral when she jumped you — the cow corral.” 

Parlen’s drooping lids opened wide. He stared. 






264, 


Branded 


“ Horse corral, you mean. Why, I’d swear — 
But no, that accounts for it. Beats all how a night 
blizzard turns you clear around. Couldn’t make 
out why the barn wasn’t there. Seemed as if it 
must have blown away. I felt along the rails and 
found a gate. Started to take down the bars to let 
my horse in. That infernal she-devil was inside. 
Soon as I opened up, she jumped me.” 

“Inside, you say?” queried Kiowa. “Inside the 
corral? You’re dead sure of that?” 

“Yes, absolutely.” 

From back of the rocking chair the old cow-wom¬ 
an gave Joe a meaning glance. 

“ You best go close the bars, son. Some the calves 
might leak out.” 

“There’s Part’s horse, too,” said Joe. 

The neck cords of the horse’s owner twitched. 

“He’s tied to the corral beyond the gate, Joe. 
If you’ll turn him into the barn— Just heave the 
saddle up on the handiest rail. There’s nothing in 
the roll or bags I’ll want till I go on to town. You 
remember, Mary asked me to come around this way, 
next time I went in.” 

“ Tough luck you slamming up against a blizzard 
and Splay Foot here, all the same night,” gibed 
Kiowa. 

“ Certainly was, Aunt Ki. You’ll find my pistol 
at the gate, Joe. She knocked it out of my hand 
before I could shoot the second time. Yes, I 
had intended to camp at sundown, but decided to 
push through without stopping. The blizzard was 



Splay Foot's Leavings 


265 


as big a surprise as that dam — as Splay Foot.” 

“Well, you best lean back and rest. You’ll need 
it, losing all that blood. Go on, Joe. Mary’ll help 
me tilt the chair and brace it.” 

Joe took his pistol and lantern, and went out 
again into the storm. The wind was beginning to 
lull. But, unlike that other Maytime night blizzard, 
it had not suddenly blown itself away, along with 
the snow clouds. The flakes were still falling. Splay 
Foot, unlike her mother, would leave no trail. 

He found no cows or calves near the gate. His 
innate kindness towards animals sent him first along 
the outside of the fence to the thoroughbred. He led 
the shivering horse to the barn and gave him a big 
feed of oats. The dry snow brushed off easily. He 
heaved the saddle up on the high wall of the box 
stall, without removing Parlen’s bed-roll and saddle¬ 
bags. 

Back at the cattle corral he went in and looked 
over the snow-covered ground behind the closely 
packed herd. From the corral he returned to the 
house. 

Parlen lay at ease in the backward tilted rocker. 
Though he seemed to be asleep, the cords of his neck 
twitched when Joe came in. Mary had gone to make 
sure the baby was all right. 

Kiowa put a finger to her lips. 

“Sh-sh!” she whispered. “He just dropped off. 
How ’bout — her? Was he lying?” 

“We’ll add another top wire,” said Joe. “I 
thought it impossible for even her to make such a 



266 


Branded 


jump. But there was the calf to prove it — what 
she didn’t eat. Too bad Pari blundered into the 
wrong corral. She was trapped — had gorged so 
much she couldn’t jump out. Then Pari opened the 
bars. She bolted through. He being in the way, 
she jumped him.” 

The cords of Parlen’s neck stopped twitching. 
His tense face relaxed. 

“Reckon he had it coming to him,” gibed Kiowa. 
“The big she-devil prob’ly hadn’t forgot how he 
branded her.” 

Joe’s face darkened. 

“Being branded is no fun. Far as you’re con¬ 
cerned, Pve tossed it over my shoulder. But there 
are plenty of buckaroos right now who’d call me 
‘Homicide Kid,’ only they’re afraid I might repeat 
the alleged performance.” 

“What of it, son?” soothed the old cow-woman. 
“Your uncle had it coming to him, and so did 
Hooch—the thieving, burning rustler!” 

“That doesn’t help me any, Gran’ma. Maybe it 
was me, or maybe it was Mex, who finished Hooch. 
But I didn’t pull trigger on Uncle Lor. All the 
same, I’m branded for life. Even you still think I 
did it. Mary is the only one who believes me, and 
she may sometime come to doubt the truth. Branded! 
Just because I keep my mouth shut, is no sign I don’t 
feel the burn. It’s there all the time, scorching in 
deeper and deeper!” 

“Shucks!” muttered Kiowa. “Never figgered 
you felt that bad about it, son. I’m going to start 



Splay Foot's Leavings 


267 


in, right off, spilling around it was Hooch done it. 
Keep harping at anything long ’nough, and folks’ll 
believe it’s so. Hooch or Mex could’ve sneaked Parl’s 
rifle, just as you said he might’ve. Anyhow, he 
ain’t here to deny it. We’ll saddle the killing on 
him — the dirty brand-blotter!” 

Joe put out his hand in a gesture of hopelessness. 

u It’s no use. With Hooch dead and Mex gone, 
we can’t make them own up. We have no proof, and 
never w T ill have. Even you still believe I did it.” 

Kiowa tried to speak, and failed. She was not a 
ready liar. 

“You see,” said Joe. “I’m branded — branded 
for life. Worse than that — the iron will not stop 
at me. There’s Baby. He’ll be burned, too. They 
won’t know him as Mary’s boy. He’ll be branded the 
soil of the Homicide Kid.” 



CHAPTER XXVII 


FOR FAVORS RECEIVED 

T HOUGH the blizzard blew itself out long be¬ 
fore morning, the snow continued to fall until 
sun-up. It had so covered the trail of Splay Foot 
that Joe made no haste to go out after the returned 
cattle-killer. Her desperate leap into the corral 
meant that she had a litter of young pups to feed. 
For a month or more the pups would keep her from 
shifting off the Seven Up range. 

The first need was to make another raid on the 
herd impossible even for her amazing power as a 
leaper. In the two days required to heighten the 
corral with more barbed wire, the return of normal 
balmy May warmth melted off all the snow. 

Parlen had at once begun to rally from his blood- 
loss and the shock of his wounds. Thanks to their 
free bleeding, and the quick use of carbolic acid by 
Kiowa and Mary, the gashes made by the she-wolfs 
sharp fangs healed rapidly. But Parlen saw to it 
that the lacerated arms continued to hang limp in 
their slings. With many apologies for his helpless¬ 
ness, he permitted Mary to feed him as if he were 
a two-year-old child. 

His weakness, however, was not all shammed. 
When, on the afternoon of the first day, he insisted 
268 


For Favors Received 


269 


upon wading out through the slush to look at his 
thoroughbred, his knees really wabbled. 

In the barn he dropped on a pile of hay and lay 
resting until Rocker stumbled out to help with the 
new wiring of the corral. Parlen at once staggered 
to his feet and went into his horse’s stall. Behind 
cover of the stall’s high side, his bandaged arms shot 
up out of the slings. The movement gave him such 
agony that he barely stifled a cry. Though his arms 
had not been as disabled as he had pretended, the 
she-wolf’s long fangs had ripped deep into the flesh. 

His torn muscles, however, obeyed the urge of his 
deathly fear, and his bitten hands had not been 
mangled. He was able to grope with the bandaged 
fingers. Frightful as was the pain, he managed to 
fumble from the saddlebags the telltale hoof-muffles 
of rawhide and burlap and the horsehair reata of 
Mex Chavez. By the time he had them safely hidden 
under a pile of wornout harness and saddles he was 
so exhausted that he barely managed to totter back 
to the pile of hay. Yet now he felt safe against 
discovery. He could relax and begin to regain his 
strength for another attempt. 

At sundown he was wakened out of a deep sleep 
by the racket of Rocker doing the barn chores. This 
time he had to sham weakness. He rather over-acted. 
His^fegs seemed so very tottery that Joe and Swede 
carried him to the house. 

On the third day be began openly to use his hands 
and arms a little, but complained much both of the 
genuine pain and of his sham weakness. He kept re- 



£70 


Branded 


peating his regrets that he could not go out with 
Joe to help him get Splay Foot. This was a lie. 
What he wished was to be left alone with Mary. 
Yet his desire for the death of the she-wolf was 
bitterly sincere. If she had not interfered with his 
plans, the Seven Up would have been ruined and 
Mary become a widow. 

The second evening had seen the corral wiring 
completed. Dawn of the fourth day Joe started off 
into the Yamparos. His outfit was light, for he had 
been pondering on all that he knew about wolves in 
general and Splay Foot in particular, and he had a 
“ hunch.” 

All that day and the next morning Parlen con¬ 
tinued to sham weakness. Splay Foot’s slashes had 
lacerated more than one nerve in his arms. His real 
suffering gave him a genuine basis upon which to 
work for a deepening of Mary’s sympathy. He had 
heard the old saying that pity is akin to love. He 
relied on this and on her gratification for his seem¬ 
ing tenderness towards her baby. 

It was plain to see that she now trusted him as 
a friend and relative, and was beginning to like him 
again. Only, sour old Kiowa aggravatingly per¬ 
sisted in afflicting them with her company. She never 
gave him a moment alone with Mary. 

Towards twilight of the second day after Joe had 
gone, Kiowa for once relaxed her vigilance. She 
went to the barn, leaving Mary in the kitchen with 
the visitor. Parlen insisted upon taking out the 
crippled wolfhound’s pan of bones in his own crippled 



For Favors Received 


271 


hands. It gave him the chance to make sure that 
Kiowa was out of hearing. He patted the broken- 
spirited dog, gave him the bones, and hastened back 
into the house. 

Mary, with one foot rocking the old cradle, had 
started to sort her basket of mending. Parlen 
drew up a chair close beside her. 

“ It’s a shame your having to darn and patch old 
rags like those,” he murmured. “ If I’d been the 
lucky one, Mary, instead of him, you’d have your 
silks and satins. But of course, as long as you 
chose him — You’ve given me your sympathy, Mary. 
No need to tell you how highly I value it. Re¬ 
member that, when you find you need mine.” 

Mary looked up, her clear blue eyes puzzled. 

“ When I — What do you mean P ” 

“Well, I hardly like to say anything. Still, 
it’s not fair for him and Aunt Ki to keep things 
from you. The night I was hurt, when I was in a 
faint from loss of blood, I came to just enough to 
hear him admit to Aunt Ki that he was branded for 
life by what he had done — to Uncle Lor.” 

64 1 don’t believe it,” said Mary, her eyes suddenly 
like ice. “You must have been out of your head.” 

“If only I could think I was, Mary! But that 
was the least of it. He went on to say how the iron 
of the killing would burn clear through and brand 
your baby. People would not know the boy as your 
child, but as the spawn of the Homicide Kid. If 
that’s not admitting he killed Uncle Lor, what is ? ” 

“I don’t-” 




272 


Branded 


44 Of course not,” Parlen broke in. 44 I’m not ex¬ 
pecting you to. All I ask is that you make him tell 
you whether it isn’t true, before you let him know 
who it was told you. I’m sorry to have to be the 
one to open your eyes. But it’s the truth — just 
what I’ve told you. He’ll admit it if you pin him 
down to facts. He told Aunt Ki the shame of it is 
with him all the time, burning in deeper and deeper 
— especially that about the baby — what he had 
done to spoil his future.” 

Mary dropped down on her knees to look close at 
her sleeping child. He was a plump, lusty young 
man of five and a half months, with a mop of golden- 
red hair, six teeth, and eyes as blue as her own. Her 
nearness wakened him from his nap. Both teeth 
and eyes displayed their charms in the wide smile 
that accompanied his gurgling chuckle of delight. 

Parlen thought he saw Mary wipe a tear from her 
eye. He bent down and drew his right arm from 
its sling to lay it across her shoulders. Mary canted 
her head a little and suddenly sprang up. She 
darted to the rear door. Joe came swinging in. 

Always before in Parlen’s presence the young hus¬ 
band and wife had shown themselves very reserved. 
Now Joe either did not see his cousin, or else he was 
too glad to care. He threw his arms about Mary and 
kissed her. She clung fast to him, holding up her 
face for more kisses even when he would have re¬ 
leased her. 

44 Oh, I’ve missed you so, sweetheart!” she cried. 
44 It’s good to have you back with me and Baby — 



For Favors Received 


278 


my big-hearted, clear-eyed, straight-tongued boy 
who never stoops to lying and meanness 1 ” 

Joe’s tanned face reddened with embarrassment. 

“Aw, say, Mary, cut it out. Pari won’t savvy. 
He’s not hitched to an A-one side-kick like you, old 
woman.” 

“I should say not! There never has been any 
chance of his roping me. What he wants is style and 
cows. Money talks-—Jo money. Which of the 
Goodmorrow girls are you going to rope, Pari?” 

Parlen had turned his back. He was staring down 
at the baby. The child’s chuckling ceased. The 
smile left the dimpled cheeks. Parlen moistened his 
dry lips with the tip of his tongue. The upwelling 
of his rancor forced out a gibe at his cousin. 

“You — back sooner than— Quit, did you?” 

Joe grinned good-naturedly. 

“Not altogether. I missed the she-devil again. 
But I collected interest on what she owes us. Had 
a hunch to try the old hole. Gathered in all her 
pups. Laid for her. Had she been any other wolf- 
mother, I’d have brought in her scalp. Moon last 
night, after a flurry of snow up there that stayed on 
till sunrise. But she’s even slicker than was old 
Gotch Ear. Not a peep of her — no tracks. She 
must have spotted me, savvied the pups were gone, 
and vamoosed.” 

“Yes,” agreed Parlen, with a sudden change of 
tone. “ It was no use your hanging around the old 
hole after you got her pups. She’ll never come near 
it again. What do you care, though? You have 



Branded 


274 


Mary — and missing Splay Foot keeps you on the 
Government payroll.” 

“You mean-” 

“No, I don’t. Forget it, kid. I was only scratch¬ 
ing you for fun. You’d be on edge yourself, tied up 
like this — with your arms like a dozen toothaches. 
As you see, though, I’m beginning to be able to use 
the right one a little — enough to hold my reins. 
I’ll start on for town at sun-up.” 

“Why, if you must go—” said Mary, before Joe 
could urge the guest to continue his visit. 

Parlen understood. By the look that went with 
the girl’s words, he knew that she knew what he had 
been driving at in his crooked way. Still more, from 
her greeting of Joe and from her taunt about the 
Goodmorrow girls, he knew that he had no more 
chance of winning her than he had of roping the 
moon. 

Her marriage to Joe had served only to add the 
hell-fire of jealousy to the hidden volcano of his 
passion. But now the certainty that his craving for 
her was hopeless, turned his selfish love into bitter¬ 
ness and hate. All night he lay in torment, planning 
a revenge that would strike her even harder than 
Joe. 

In the morning, while Mary was cooking break¬ 
fast, he went out to overlook Rocker’s saddling of 
the thoroughbred. Easy enough to send the half¬ 
wit wrangler off on a fool’s errand and get the hoof- 
muffles and the horsehair reata into the saddlebags, 
unseen. 




For Favors Received 


275 


After breakfast, with hell in his heart and a smile 
on his lips, he insisted upon giving Joe and Kiowa, 
and then Mary, a feeble clasp with his poor, crippled, 
bandaged hand. He chucked the baby under the 
chin, and picked up the “ snack ” that Kiowa had 
put in a meal sack for his mid-day lunch. 

“Good-bye,” he said. “It’s been a nuisance, I 
know, having a cripple round the house. But I 
won’t forget how you’ve treated me. I’ll pay you 
for it soon as I can.” 

“Forget it,” replied Joe. “We’d do as much by 
a stranger. Now that we’ve squared the past, you’re 
one of our family.” 

Struck with sudden fear of Mary’s clear eyes, 
Parlen hurried out to his horse. As he hop-mounted, 
he called over his shoulder to Joe, who alone had 
followed him: 

“ Got to meet the afternoon train. S’long.” 

His horse jumped to the jab of his spurs and 
sprinted off around the old log house. 



CHAPTER XXVIII 


WOLF WORK 

T HE thoroughbred reached town in time for his 
rider to transact some unimportant business 
at the bank. He registered at the hotel, making 
careful display of his bandaged arms and his almost 
total inability to use them. 

He spent the evening in the lobby, giving his fel¬ 
low guests and the landlord a detailed account of the 
blizzard and how Splay Foot had mangled his arms. 
He ended by asking the night clerk to call him at 
dawn, as he would have to hasten back to the 
Circle B. 

“ Must watch my men close to see they don’t slack 
on their work,” he explained. 

His tone and the remark alike reminded his listen¬ 
ers of his uncle. They quite understood — or 
thought they did — his urgent haste to leave town. 

In the morning he loped away on the road to the 
Circle B until he came to a long stretch so hard and 
wind-swept that no one would expect to find hoof- 
prints on it. He swung off the road and headed 
across country for the Seven Up. At the first soft 
ground he tied on the hoof-muffles. 

Shortly before dusk he led the thoroughbred up 
out of the north coulee, near where the dog pack had 
found the fresh trail of Splay Foot and her mate. 

276 


Wolf Work 




Limpy and Swede had herded in the cattle from 
their day’s grazing. Under cover of the trees on 
the ridge, Parlen watched Joe help the punchers 
drive the herd into the corral for the night. Rocker 
went around the end of the barn, swaying from side 
to side. Mary came briskly up the path from the 
spring house, followed by Kiowa with the baby. All 
members of the Seven Up outfit were following their 
present evening routine. 

The watcher tied his horse to a pine branch, ate 
sparingly of the food he had brought from town, 
took off the shirt lent to him by Joe, and removed 
the bandages that most interfered with the free play 
of his almost healed, muscles. He put the shirt on 
again, packed the strips of cloth in the saddlebags, 
and stretched out to rest. 

His plans called for a wait of only two or three 
hours — time for all at the ranch to turn in and fall 
asleep. He could wait that long without impatience. 
In fact, it gave him the chance to lie there with his 
eyes fixed upon the lamplit kitchen window and gloat 
over the perfection of his coming revenge. It would 
be complete — it would hurt Kiowa and Joe far 
more than the mere ruin of the Seven Up — it would 
tear Mary’s heart out of her bosom. 

Best of all, it would be safe. The moon, instead 
of hindering, would enable him to carry out the 
scheme exactly as planned, and he would then have 
all day to make his getaway. By hard riding aslant 
the Yamparos, he could make home some time the 
following night. His men would believe he had been 



278 


Branded 


up to his uncle’s old trick of riding around to spy 
on them after a trip to town. 

No need for him to worry over any possible ill 
consequences to himself. The scheme was abso¬ 
lutely safe. He could put out of his mind all fear of 
discovery and give himself over to the fierce joy of 
his malignant anticipation. No need here in the 
darkness to mask his hate behind lying smiles. He 
could give free rein to the devil within him that had 
been loosed first by his jealous passion, and was now 
enraged beyond all restraint by Mary’s final scorn¬ 
ing of him. 

A momentary flood of light from the kitchen door¬ 
way told that the men had finished supper and were 
going to the bunk-house. Another wait. Then the 
glow in the little windows went out, first at the 
bunk-house, next at the kitchen, last of all at the 
bedrooms. The buildings humped, dark and silent, 
under the pale light of the quarter moon. 

Still another wait. At last Parlen looked at his 
watch, and got up to stretch himself. He started 
to untie his horse. Down the coulee came a wailing 
cry that sent the high-strung thoroughbred swinging 
around against his master and for a moment made 
Parlen’s heart stand still. 

Many as were the times he had heard the howl 
of a gray wolf, never before had it seemed so fright¬ 
fully dismal and blood-curdling. For that moment 
of terror he doubted it was the howl of a wolf of 
flesh and blood. In an old book he had read of lost 
souls wailing in the anguish of hell. 



Wolf Work 


279 


Again the desolate howl quavered down the coulee. 
No mistake about it. The cry was a wail of grief 
and mourning, but it was the mourning of a, wolf. 
The chilled blood suddenly spurted through the 
listener’s veins in a quick-heating torrent. 

Splay Foot! She knew the enemy who had robbed 
her of her cubs. She had trailed him home. No 
doubt Joe had brought the slaughtered cubs with 
him. She had come to mourn them, and to seek 
vengeance against their killer. Wolf vengeance. 

Parlen chuckled. Nothing could have fitted in 
more perfectly with his scheme. Some of the ranch 
folks, perhaps all, must have heard that howl. Joe 
probably would turn out and lie in wait until the 
mourner showed herself or went back to the hills. 
But the delay was well worth while. 

The human wolf stroked the forehead of his quiver¬ 
ing horse and waited. 

For a time the she-wolf was silent. Then her howl 
burst out again, so frightfully loud and near that 
Parlen snatched his pistol from its holster. His 
horse snorted and plunged, jerking to free the still 
untied bridle reins. 

In the darkness between the pines Parlen saw a 
pair of glaring greenish-yellow eyes. He thrust out 
his pistol, but paused with his finger crooked against 
the trigger. At any instant the she-devil might hurl 
herself upon him, as she had so ferociously jumped 
him during the blizzard. Yet if he fired even one 
shot, the ranch would hear, and his second scheme 
Would go the way of the first. 



280 


Branded 


Torn between fear and rage, he cursed the she- 
wolf for a hell-hound. At the sound of his voice the 
glaring eyes vanished. He waited, in an agony of 
suspense, with the pistol held ready for a quick shot. 

After some time he realized that his horse had be¬ 
come quiet. Yet he continued to grip the pistol until 
he heard the howl of the mourning she-wolf far off 
along the coulee ridge. She was returning to the 
hills. 

Rather more than an hour later he tied his horse 
to a tree in the ranch creek gulley, at the in-forking 
of the little ravine of the spring-rill. Before reach¬ 
ing the coulee he had swathed his boots with the bur¬ 
lap strips in his saddlebags. They left no tracks 
when he circled around back of the corrals to the 
far side of the barn. 

Inside the barn he had no need to grope about or 
guess. He knew exactly where to start his fire. As 
he skulked back around the corrals his fingers itched 
to thrust matches< into the old waste hay at the 
corner of the feed sheds. But that might betray 
him. The fire must seem to have been due to the 
carelessness of Rocker or one of the other men. 

He had calculated so well that the flames did not 
burst out through the side of the barn until he had 
returned down the creek gulley. As he skulked up 
along the rill thicket to the spring-house, the crippled 
wolfhound ceased cowering in the dog kennel and 
crawled out to yelp and bark. 

Almost at the same moment Kiowa smashed her 
window with the muzzle of her old Colts. Her shots 



Wolf Work 


281 


and screeches brought the three men tumbling from 
the bunk-house. Joe, quickest of all, came sprinting 
from the kitchen to lead the others to the barn. 
Kiowa flew after him, in boots and flannel nightgown. 

Mary had stopped to put on a robe, as well as her 
shoes. But once started, her swift feet soon carried 
her to the burning barn. Though the fire was too 
far under way for the barn to be saved, Kiowa and 
the men were already running out with saddles and 
harness Mary caught up a saddle blanket and be¬ 
gan to beat out the sparks and cinders that swirled 
down towards the feed sheds. 

None of the fire fighters looked towards the house.. 
Even had they done so, the red glare of the barn 
would have blinded them to all objects out in the dim 
moonlight. Parlen stole across to the house and 
around the corner of the kitchen. The crippled 
wolfhound stopped yelping and whined his recogni¬ 
tion of the man who had fed him. Parlen had a 
knife in one hand. He petted the hound with the 
other hand, gripped his collar, and suddenly gashed 
him several times as a wolf would strike. 

Freeing the frantically struggling beast, Parlen 
darted back around the corner and into the house. 
The kitchen was dark. But Mary had lighted her 
lamp to find her robe. The baby lay in his cradle 
fast asleep. Parlen lifted him out with utmost care, 
then upset the cradle and dragged the coverlet from 
it in the hand that held his knife. 

The baby did not waken. But as Parlen faced the 
dark little hall between the bedroom and the un- 



282 


Branded 


lighted kitchen, he dropped the coverlet and drew 
his pistol. Behind his neckerchief mask his face went 
clammy with cold sweat. 

So far the scheme had worked out exactly as 
planned. Yet if anyone had come back from the 
fire, he might be recognized. He was too tall to pass 
for Mex Chavez, even in a dim light. He fumbled 
his way hastily through the kitchen to the open rear 
door. 

To his vast relief, he made out the two women and 
four men still scurrying around in the glare of the 
flaming barn. He skulked across to the shelter of 
the spring-rill thicket and down to the creek gulley. 

The jolt of his upswing into the saddle wakened 
the baby. The child started to cry. Parlen gagged 
him with his neckerchief and put spurs to the thor¬ 
oughbred. 

By dawn he was far up in the midst of the Yam- 
par os. A certain long-remembered canon had guided 
him to the east end of the ridge from which, years 
past, he and Joe and little Mary had crossed over 
to the lair of Gotch Ear. Instead of climbing the 
steep slope, he turned up the fork of the canon that 
cut between this ridge and the ridge of the cave cliff. 

Rough and broken as was the bed of the branch 
canon, he spurred his horse up its narrow, twisting 
course. Of a sudden he realized that for some time 
— he could not even guess how long — the tread of 
his horse had been accompanied by an intermittent 
clinking. Certain of his safety, he had so given him¬ 
self over to gloating upon his revenge that the noise 



Wolf Work 


28S 


had failed to penetrate his consciousness. When 
now he stared down, he saw that two at least of the 
hoof-muffles had worn through. 

But the cafion bed was too rocky to show any be¬ 
traying prints of the thoroughbred’s hoofs. He 
spurred the beast to a quicker gait. Time enough to 
rebind the muffles when they should come back down 
the canon. If ever found, the scratches on the 
stones would tell only of shod hoofs — no more. 

At last the tired thoroughbred scrambled around 
a turn that brought his rider in sight of the cave. 
Parlen tossed the reins over the horse’s down-sagged 
head, and swung out of the saddle to lay the half- 
smothered baby on a ledge. As he pulled the coils 
of the horsehair rope from the saddlebags he wound 
them around his waist. If the child were ever found, 
the reata, left in the cave with him, would be con¬ 
sidered the derisive token of Mex Chavez that he had 
avenged the killing of his partner by Joe. 

With the slings that Mary had made for his 
slashed arms, Parlen fastened her baby on his back. 
The cliff ledges then offered little difficulty, though 
his arms were still very stiff and sore. 

The thoroughbred had quenched his thirst at a 
small water hole. But the canon bottom was barren, 
and he had not eaten since leaving town. He began 
working his way down-canon, with his neck curved 
sideways to trail the reins clear of his hoofs. 

Parlen saw the horse start off, but did not turn 
back down the lower ledges to stop him. The animal 
could not go far during the few minutes it would take 



284 


Branded 


to climb to the cave and scramble down again. As 
the climber pulled himself up on the well-reniembered 
shelf of rock at the top of the ascent, he saw the 
horse only just disappearing around the first bend. 

He crept along to the jutting side of the cave 
mouth and stepped in the niche to catch his breath 
and rest his over-strained arm muscles. Here it was 
that Mary, with the slit-eared wolf pup in her arms, 
had threatened to push him off the cliff. 

The remembrance keyed his rancor to a still higher 
pitch of malignant gloating. She had balked him of 
the last pup of Gotch Ear’s litter. Now he had 
brought her baby to the old wolf hole. Let her save 
him if she could! 

He peered around the jutting rock into the cave 
mouth. The passage was lower than he had remem¬ 
bered. To get into the cave, he would have to take 
the baby off his back. Otherwise it would be crushed 
against the sharp-cornered rocks of the passage 
roof. He could gloat over leaving the child to starve 
to death. But the thought of mangling that soft, 
warm little body was too horrible even for his almost 
insane jealousy and hate. 

He took the feebly writhing baby from his back. 
It was blue from suffocation. That also was more 
than he could stand. He had no relish for the out¬ 
right murder of so helpless a creature. For another 
thing, there was his neckerchief. In the darkness of 
the cave he might forget to take it away. 

Relieved from the smothering folds of the necker¬ 
chief, the baby gasped into a cry that quickly rose 



Wolf Work 


285 


to a pitiful wail for his “ Mama! ” The big blue 
eyes gazed up through a blur of tears. They were 
so like Mary’s eyes ! 

For an instant Parlen hesitated. Then his hate 
and jealousy flared up in venomous fury. Her baby 
— and Joe’s! 

He reached the child around the jutting rock into 
the cave mouth. As he crept after, along the nar¬ 
rowed shelf, he cast a sideward glance in under the 
roof of the cave passage. 

Back in the blackness two fiery eyes were glaring 
at him. The cave dinned with a yell of fury. He 
grabbed for his pistol. The hilt was entangled in 
the down-sagged loops of the horsehair reata. Be¬ 
fore he could free it, the she-wolf was upon him. He 
flung up his left arm to shield his throat, and sought 
to back around the cave-mouth corner. 

Splay Foot hurled herself against him with all the 
strength and weight of her huge wolf body. He 
reeled, clutched frantically at the jagged rock, and 
toppled backwards down the cliff. In the plunge his 
left shoulder hit a ledge. The blow whirled him half 
over. He struck the canon bed on his back, instead 
of head foremost. 

The terrific shock knocked him breathless but did 
not stun him. He had so fallen that his eyes were 
upturned to the mouth of the cave. He saw the 
grim head of the she-wolf out-thrust from the brink 
of the cliff. She was glaring down at him. 

Terrorized perhaps by the savage growls of the 
wolf, the baby had ceased to cry. But as Parlen 



286 


Branded 


stared up at the fierce beast, he suddenly forgot 
himself in the realization that the child was up there 
alone, absolutely at the mercy of the merciless killer 
— lying right under the beast. 

Horror seized upon him — horror and remorse. 
At any moment the she-devil might turn and crunch 
the child in those great jaws. He could feel the 
long fangs rend that tender little body. Cold sweat 
drenched his face. 

No, the beast was still glaring down at him. 
There might yet be time. She may not have noticed 
the baby in the excitement of her attack. Or, more 
probably, her hate for him had stayed her voracity. 

Of a sudden he became aware that he had drawn 
his pistol — that he was thrusting it up in his right 
hand. It seemed to fire itself. The she-wolf wrenched 
around sideways and backwards. Before Parlen 
could fire again she had disappeared from his sight. 
He pictured her terrible jaws closing on the baby 
and dragging the mangled body back into the lair 
for the devouring. 

Frantic with horror, he sought to leap to his feet. 
He would run up the ledges — dash into the cave — 
kill that she-devil! His body hardly stirred on its 
bed of stone. His legs refused to lift or bend. He 
twisted over on his left arm. It doubled like a piece 
of rope. He dropped back and lay for several 
moments, completely bewildered. 

Slowly the truth forced itself in upon his reluctant 
brain. His left arm was broken. He could not 
move either leg. From the small of his back down, 



Wolf Work 


287 


his body was paralyzed. His spine had been broken. 

The numbness from the shock of his fall was be¬ 
ginning to pass. Agonizing pains began to torture 
him. To the horror of his remorse was added the 
dread of a death of slow torment. Black despair 
seized upon him. He thrust the muzzle of the pistol 
against his temple and jerked the trigger. 

There was no crash and roar—-no sudden hurling 
of his tortured spirit into merciful oblivion. Hard 
as his finger tugged, the trigger refused to draw 
back. He raised the pistol before his despairing 
eyes. The fall upon the rocks had jammed the auto¬ 
matic cylinder against the barrel. 

With only one hand usable, he could not force the 
cylinder free and shuck another cartridge from the 
magazine into the barrel. He felt under the coils of 
the reata for the sharp-pointed knife with which he 
had slashed the wolfhound. The knife was gone. He 
must lie there and die by inches — as he had in¬ 
tended that Mary’s baby should die. 



CHAPTER XXIX 


END OF THE TRAIL 

T HE sides of the burning barn had fallen in upon 
the cinders of the roof before Mary yielded 
to Joe’s urgings that she go back to the house and 
rest. 

“No chance of the sheds catching now,” he said. 
“ Swede and I will keep watch. You and Gran’ma 
had better get back to bed — Limpy and Rocker, 
too.” 

The half-wit horse-wrangler stood apart from the 
others, wiping tears from his blackened cheeks with 
his scorched shirtsleeves, and bawling like a calf. 
Kiowa went to thump him on the shoulder. 

“ Stop your bellering, boy,” she soothed. “ Don’t 
you mind my cussing you out. Mebbe, after all, 
’twasn’t your fault. Might ’a’ been a stroke of 
lightning. Brace up now and forget it.” 

Magically comforted by the kindly words from 
his mistress, the wrangler sniffed and grinned and 
swayed off to overtake the hobbling Limpy. 

Kiowa did not at once follow Mary to the house. 
She lingered to make sure there was no sign of a 
night wind that might yet swirl cinders from the 
ruined barn over on the feed sheds. Joe called to 
her cheerily: 

“Lucky it’s happened with summer ahead of us, 
288 


End of the Trail 


289 


instead of winter. We’ll have a big new one here — 
regular dairy bam — before snow flies.” 

“ That’s the way to talk, son. You’re no quitter 
— no more than me. Nothing’s going to down us. 
We’ll show Pari-” 

From over at the house came a burst of heart¬ 
rending screams. Mary ran out into the moonlight, 
frantic. Joe was first to reach her. She was so 
nearly beside herself that he could make nothing of 
her wild cries. He left her to Kiowa, and dashed 
into the house. 

Mary had lit the kitchen lamp. Nothing in there 
to have alarmed her. He ran to the door of their 
room. A glance showed him the overturned cradle 
and out-dragged coverlet. On the corner of the 
coverlet was a dark smear. He held it up to the 
lamp. Blood! 

As Parlen had calculated, Joe had heard the howls 
of Splay Foot. The remembrance now pierced him 
like a blade of frozen poison. He could see the great 
she-wolf skulking into the open house — see her 
bound upon the cradle — overturn it — drag out 
the baby. 

The wide gaze of his horror-visioning eyes stared 
down at the cradle and across to where the coverlet 
had been dragged. Something on the skin rug 
glinted. He sprang to catch it up. It was a sharp- 
pointed little hunting knife, one of his boyhood’s 
most prized possessions, that Parlen had wheedled 
from him. 

Another outcry from Mary sent him hurrying. 




290 


Branded 


Swede had started to look for tracks. Around the 
corner of the kitchen he had come upon the body 
of the wolfhound. 

“Lobo,” he grunted, when Joe darted between 
Mary and her grandmother and stooped to look. 

“ That infernal Splay Foot! ” added Kiowa. “ I 
heard her howl.” 

Joe held up the knife. 

“Here’s the tooth that did it. See, Mary. Not 
a wolf, a man. . . . out of revenge. It’s the knife 
I gave Pari years ago. He fired the barn to draw 
us all out, then gashed the hound so we’d think Splay 
Foot had taken Baby. Cherk up! If he’d meant to 
kill Baby, he’d have done it in there. Catch her, 
Swede! ” 

The big puncher carried the swooning mother into 
the house and left her to be cared for by her grand¬ 
mother. Joe had not even straightened up. His 
hunt for footprints was already begun. He ordered 
the bungling Rocker into the kitchen. 

Limpy brought a lantern and held it for the 
searcher. Beginning at the dead hound, they worked 
out in widening circles. Swede came from the 
kitchen with the old bull’s-eye lantern that Kiowa 
always kept handy in her bedroom. Its focused 
beam proved far more effective than the other lan¬ 
tern. On Joe’s next swing to the south, a slight scuff 
on the bare ground between the tufts of grass caught 
his eye. Beyond it appeared another scuff. A third 
made the trail certain. 

“Thinks he’s smart,” gibed Limpy. “Wropt his 



End of the Trail 


291 


boots in sacking. Forgot ’twas me told him and you 
how Cayuse Charlie uster rawhide the hoofs of the 
hosses he stole.” 

Joe made no reply. He was following the trail 
as rapidly as the faint scuff marks permitted. It 
led him to the spring-house and down along the bank 
of the rill. As he followed the trail to the creek 
gulley he recalled the day when he had used this same 
cover to slip up on his cousin — that day when Par- 
len had shown his cruel real self by branding the 
chained Splay Foot. This time he had sought to 
brand the she-wolf in another manner. He might 
have succeeded if he had not made the mistake of 
dropping the knife. 

Down at the junction of the creek gulley the man- 
trail ended where the soft ground showed many round 
marks. 

“Padded hoofs,” said Joe. “Saddle up. Tell 
them.” 

While Limpy ran hopping back to the house and 
Swede cut across to the corrals, Joe studied the 
trails made by the horse. Which one was coming, 
and which going? There were no horseshoe prints 
to show the direction of the trail, and the thorough¬ 
bred was a clean stepper. Very careful examination 
at last disclosed a slight scuff on the down-stream 
side of one of the round prints. 

Joe at once started along the trail that led up 
the creek. He came to where the horse had climbed 
the far bank of the gulley. The signs here were 
unmistakable. The horse had gone up, not down. 



292 


Branded 


The others came loping along the gulley bank, 
guided by the flash of the bull’s-eye lantern. Kiowa 
led, closely pressed by Mary. When told about the 
trail, Mary had jumped from her grandmother’s bed. 
Nothing could persuade her to stay behind. She had 
dressed for riding even more quickly than had Kiowa. 

Rocker continued to lead the mare. Joe could fol¬ 
low the trail faster afoot. It wound up alongside the 
gully bank to the crossing of the round-up road. 
There it led up the road to the round of the first hill. 

Beyond the hill lay a stretch of close-grown grass 
that had been cut down short by the grazing of the 
herd. The trail of the padded hoofs disappeared 
from the road where it was crossed by a bare ledge of 
rock. The ledge extended out from the road a long 
way on each side. The wide-spaced patches of grass¬ 
less ground along its edges were too greatly cut up 
with cow tracks to show the slight blur of the padded 
hoofs. 

Red dawn found Joe still searching for the lost 
trail. He put out the lantern and cast around in a 
still wider circle, hoping to cut sign in the quick- 
brightening daylight. Mary kept close behind him. 
She would not leave him for a moment. But Kiowa 
and Rocker loped back to the ranch. They returned 
with oats for the horses and rations enough to last 
the searchers three or four days. 

Joe had not yet found the slightest trace of the 
lost trail. He continued to look while he ate the 
food forced upon him by the old woman. She had 
been thinking over the situation. 



End of the Trail 


293 


“’Tain’t any use all of us sticking here,” she said. 
“We want to get every iron in the fire we can. Rock¬ 
er’s no use with a gun, but he can ride. We’ll send 
him, to town with a message that’ll turn out a posse 
of two-three hundred men. Sheriff’ll wire all up and 
down the railroad, and send word to every outfit 
within two days’ ride. That’ll head him off to the 
east and north.” 

Mary’s grief-sunken eyes flashed. 

“You go yourself, Gran’ma, and wire for that 
pack of dogs.” 

“No. We’ll put ’em in Rocker’s message. But 
me — I’ve got my own work cut out. I’m going to 
hit for the Circle B.” 

Limpy rolled his cud and spat. 

“Huh— Never took you for a ijit. Aunt Ki.” 

She was too intent upon her plan to heed the 
thrust. 

“ Most the bunch he has on now are a decent sort. 
I know the folks of half of ’em. They won’t stand 
for what he’s done. If he’s kept them hoof-muffles on 
his hoss, I can beat him to the Circle B, in case he’s 
heading for home.” 

“You’ll take Swede or Limpy,” said Joe. 

“Uk-uh. I’ll ride your mare. Others couldn’t 
keep up with her. Anyhow, my notion is he’s cir¬ 
cling, either out east, or round through the hills. 
You keep on hunting. You’re bound to cut his trail, 
sooner or later. The crazy fool can’t get away with 
a thing like he’s done. Only, ’fyou come up on him, 
he’s apt to be crazy ’nough to pop you from ambush. 



294 


Branded 


That’s why you want Limpy and Swede along.” 

Joe’s reply to this was to take the notebook and 
pencil she had brought, and write the message to the 
sheriff. Mary pinned it in the pocket of Rocker’s 
shirt, and told him to ride his best, for her sake and 
Baby’s. Swede and Limpy had been shifting their 
boss’s saddle to the mare. As Rocker jogged back 
towards the ranch, Kiowa hop-mounted and trotted 
the mare off southwards. 

The herd, released from the corral by Swede before 
he saddled the horses, began to drift around the east 
slope of the hill. Joe sent Swede to head them back, 
and returned to his hunt for the lost trail. As he 
searched, he tried to reason out what course Parlen 
had been most apt to follow. 

The chances were his cousin not only believed he 
had hidden his trail, but also that he had cast the 
blame upon the she-wolf. Once clear of the ranch, 
he probably had thought himself safe from pursuit. 
He might even have taken the pads from his horse’s 
hoofs in order to travel faster. 

At this point Joe got off the mental trail. Much 
as he knew about his cousin’s meanness, he was in¬ 
capable of conceiving a hatred and jealousy so in¬ 
human that it could drive a man to the injury of a 
helpless baby. Parlen might intend to hide the baby, 
or to send him away where he would never be found 
by his parents. But that he should hurt or kill him 
was unthinkable. Therefore he could not have gone 
to hide in the Yamparos, where the baby must soon 
starve to death. He had either headed for his ranch, 



End of the Trail 


295 


or else swung out eastwards for the railroad. 

So Joe reasoned, and he acted accordingly. He led 
Mary and the punchers in a hard ride straight east¬ 
wards across country, to the distant divide creek. 
Out on the lower range, the creek meandered along 
a broad, shallow bed. The four riders reached the 
creek shortly after forenoon, lined across the wide 
bed, and rode up its windings to the southwest. 

Dusk found them among the outlying hills of the 
divide. Nowhere had they seen a print of a horse 
hoof in the flood-smoothed sand of the creek bed. 

Afraid that a fire might betray their presence to 
Parlen, they supped on sandwiches of crackers and 
raw bacon. The men forced Mary to take all the 
saddle blankets for bedding. She insisted that she 
could not sleep. But, weary from the long day’s 
ride, and exhausted by the strain of her anxiety and 
grief, she sank into deep slumber even while Joe was 
covering her up. He and Swede and Limpy took 
turns drowsing and watching. 

In the gray dawn the old top-rider brewed Mary 
a big tin cup of sage and other herbs on a tiny fire 
of dry twigs. The bitter hot drink warmed and 
strengthened her for the day’s ride. They ate more 
sandwiches of crackers and raw bacon as they started 
on up the creek bed. 

Near the unfinished lean-to on the homestead they 
cut the trail of the mare. Evidently Kiowa had not 
“met up” with the kidnapper. Nor was there any 
sign of his trail, either above or below the usual 
creek crossing. 



296 


Branded 


“That settles it,” said Joe. “He took to the 
hills.” 

With the certainty that Parlen had not crossed 
the creek, Mary had sunk into a dejection of despair 
that came near to torpor. But at Joe’s words, a 
flash of intuition set her lack-luster eyes aglow. 

“ The cave! ” she cried — “ I saw him look at 
Baby when you told about Splay Foot’s pups!” 

Joe acted on the “hunch” without stopping to 
argue probabilities. With so small a party it would 
have been useless to cut across through the hills 
in an attempt to comb them. Joe swung out along 
the round-up road. The longest way around would 
be the shortest in time. 

Soon after noon hard riding brought them back 
to the point near the ranch where the trail had been 
lost. From here Joe struck up into the hills along 
the quickest route to the old wolf lair. Midafter¬ 
noon he cut the first sign on the lost trail — 
scratches on a stony ridge* slope where the calks of 
the thoroughbred’s shoes had stuck out through the 
worn gunnysacking and rawhide. After this the 
trail was plain. The tough bronchos were pushed 
still harder. 

Before long the trackers came up the canon to 
the forks. Something moved among the bushes in a 
side cleft. The men spread out in front of Mary 
and rushed the cleft, with rifles ready to fire. They 
found the thoroughbred browsing on the brush. 

“Keno!” cackled Limpy. “It’s a cinch. We got 
him cornered.” 



End of the Trail 


297 


“You remember the cave has two openings,” said 
Joe. “ Ride up the canon with Mary, and cover the 
hole in the cliff edge. Swede and I will work around 
to the back door.” 

“ I am going with you,” said Mary. “ If he kills 
you, he will have to kill me, too.” 

The tone of this permitted no argument. Joe 
put his tired broncho at the cleft, and Mary rode 
after him up the steep chute. 

Limpy and Swede followed the canon fork. By 
Joe’s parting order, they started off slowly, to give 
the others time for the longer, harder climb around 
and over the crags of the ridge top. But Limpy 
soon convinced himself that they could sneak up and 
cover their entrance to the cave without alarming 
the kidnapper. He and Swede spurred their horses. 

He was not, however, so certain of the landmarks 
as he had thought. Quite unexpectedly, on rounding 
a sharp bend, his upturned eyes saw the hole on the 
cliff brink. His outflung hand brought Swede to a 
halt as sudden as his own. They crouched in their 
saddles and backed their horses. But before the 
cliff shut off Limpy’s view, his far-sighted eyes 
glimpsed the body lying on the rocks of the canon 
bed, below the wolf cave. 

Afoot, he and Swede stalked cautiously forward, 
keeping close under the cliff wall. The face of the 
out-sprawled man was turned down-canon as if look¬ 
ing for help. When Limpy crept near enough to 
make out the features of that ghastly face he jerked 
up from his crouch and led Swede in a swift rush. 



298 


Branded 


“Looks like his hoss spilled him,” said Swede. 

Limpj pointed np the ledges. 

“Uk-uh. Must V fell from nigh the top. Got 
what was coming to him. Back busted — left arm. 
Didn’t cash in any too easy. Lookut his twisted 
face.” 

“ Lookut that hosshair rope round him,” said 
Swede. “I’ll eat it if ’tain’t that reata of Mex 
Chavez’s. What’s he doing with the greaser’s 
rope ? ” 

“Mebbe to help climb, or—” Limpy scratched 
his head, and made a shrewd guess— “More like, 
’twas to put all the blame of his baby-rustling on 
the greaser. The dam’ skunk! But, Lord A’mighty, 
where’s the kid?” 

Swede clutched the limp body and flung it over 
sideways. The bare rocks showed no sign of the miss¬ 
ing baby. But an open pocket-memoranda-book and 
a pencil fell from the overturned body. Limpy 
snatched them up. On the open pages of the note¬ 
book were closely scrawled lines in Parlen’s pain- 
shaken yet carefully legible handwriting. Limpy 
held the notebook well out from his far-sighted eyes 
and read slowly: 

“‘God help me — I am dying. I meant only to 
leave the baby, not to hurt him — But that she-devil 
Splay Foot knocked me off the edge. She got the 
baby-’ ” 

Swede growled a curse: 

“Hell’s too good for him! I’m going to-” 

“ Hold on,” said Limpy. “ Thay’s more. It says, 





End of the Trail 


299 


4 1 will all my property to Mary and Joe Gale. Half 
is Joe’s by rights, anyway. I got Uncle Lor to un¬ 
will him. After that Uncle Lor tried to break his 
agreement to leave all to me. He started to unwill 
me, too — so I shot him. He got what he deserved. 
I am not sorry about him — but I confess the shoot¬ 
ing, and leave my brand to Joe and Mary, hoping 
God will forgive me for what has happened to the 
baby. Parlen Brent.’” 

44 Ugh! ” Swede grunted his disgust. 44 The cheap 
sport! Feeds the kid to the lobo, then tries to bribe 
God to keep him out of hell! ” 

Limpy had stooped to pick up the indelible pencil. 

44 Aw, let him fry. We got to get busy. This here 
will ain’t no good ’less it has two witnesses.” 

44 ’Tain’t no good nohow,” replied Swede. 44 When 
we signed for the old man, you ain’t forgetting he 
told us a will’s got to be witnessed in presence of 
the wilier. This here skunk’s deader’n a doornail.” 

44 What of it?” demanded Limpy. 44 He says it’s 
his will. Being his will, he wants it o.k., don’t he? 
’Sides, how d’you know he’s dead? Didn’t he flop 
over when you touched him? Ten to one, nobody 11 
ask no questions nohow. ’F any law sharp gets 
nosey, we only got to swear it’s Part’s fist and his 
will, and he wanted it witnessed.” 

44 But if Joe and Miss Mary come and see him dead 
as a-” 

44 They won’t. Miss Mary best not see him, any¬ 
how. We’re going to plant him pronto in that there 
pothole. Here’s the pencil. Stick your fist on the 




300 


Branded 


line under mine. The Circle B b’longs to the kid 
and Miss Mary. They’re a-going to have it, ’f I 
have to lick all the stuffing outer your ornery hide.” 

Swede already was gripping the pencil in his big 
fist. He scrawled his “ E. W. Swede Moorland ” 
under Limpy’s “Alexander G. Smith.” 

The pothole was a deep, round cavity scoured out 
of the cliff-foot by floods. None too gently the body 
of Parlen Brent was lowered to the bottom. Over it 
the two punchers hastily started to build a cairn 
of the largest boulders they could carry. 



CHAPTER XXX 

THE SHE-WOLF ? S FAIR 


U P ON the ridge top Joe and Mary had come 
to a mass of broken rocks impassable for their 
horses. They left the animals grazing, and hastened 
on, over and between the crags. 

At last Joe slowed down and: crept forward to peer 
from a rock crest at the open ridge top beyond. Off 
to the left a narrow cleft twisted in among the huge 
boulder crags massed along the canon rim. Neither 
cleft nor ridge top showed signs of any living crea¬ 
ture. 

Joe handed his rifle to Mary and took from her the 
bundle of resinous twigs that he had gathered com¬ 
ing up out of the canon. With a whispered order for 
Mary to wait where she was, he drew his pistol and 
sidled along the rock crest to the entrance of the 
cleft. Mary followed at his heels. When he slipped 
over and down into the mouth of the cleft, she slipped 
after him, no less silently. 

He motioned her to wait, but did not speak even 
in a whisper. They were at the “ back door ” of the 
wolf lair. As he crept along the cleft, Mary followed 
just far enough behind to leave room for him to 
jump backwards. 

The cleft made two sharp crooks, then ran in 
under the crags. Joe paused to listen. No sound 
301 


SO2 


Branded 


came to him out of the blackness of the cave. Yet 
he had a feeling that something was lurking in there 
— something fiercely malignant. The hair of his 
scalp stiffened. In his nostrils was the rank smell of 
a recently occupied gray wolf den. But he had no 
thought of Splay Foot. 

He visioned only his cousin, crouched there in the 
foul darkness over the huddled body of the baby. 
That the baby must be dead from, starvation and ex¬ 
posure he felt all too certain. The spring nights 
in the Yamparos were apt to be dank and chill, and 
Parlen could not have brought any food that so 
young a child could eat. He knew nothing about 
babies, and Joe knew little more. 

Thought of his tiny boy lying in there wan and 
stark brought Joe’s teeth grinding together. What 
matter if his devilish cousin, crazed by the death of 
the baby, was lurking like a wolf, murderously eager 
to kill anyone who should enter ? 

The thrust of Mary’s desperately urgent hand was 
not necessary. Joe had already drawn a match from 
his pocket. He crept on to where the narrow pas¬ 
sage crooked sharply into the cave room. At the 
first touch of the lighted match, the dry resinous 
twigs flared. Joe tossed the flaming bundle around 
the rock corner into the main cave. 

Out of the red glare came neither a curse nor the 
roar of a pistol. With his own pistol raised to fire, 
Joe peered into the torch-lit lair.Empty! 

“Gone!” he groaned “Bolted! If Limpy and 
Swede haven’t headed him off-” 





The She-Wolfs Lair 


SOS 


He lunged into and across the cave room. He 
started to twist around the turn into the other pas¬ 
sage— and stopped short, to crouch, rigid. From 
his gaped mouth came a choking gasp. His out- 
thrust pistol wavered in his shaking hand. 

Frantic with fear, Mary flung herself forward 
past him and around the turn. Less then ten feet 
away, in the bright sun glare at the cave mouth, she 
saw the huge gray form of Splay Foot oustretched 
upon the rock. 

The she-wolf appeared to be basking in the sun, 
asleep — for once off her guard. She lay like a dog, 
with her jaws resting upon her in-doubled splay 
foot. Both her slit ear and the clear brand of the 
Seven Up on her shoulder identified her beyond all 
question. 

But Joe’s sudden horror had not been due to fear 
lest the murderous beast should rouse up and fly at 
him. He was staring over her shaggy gray shoul¬ 
ders at that which lay huddled in the curve of the 
she-wolf’s under body and sideward-twisted hind¬ 
quarters— a torn-clothed round little body. 

The little body stirred — a low cry wailed in 
through the cave passage. 

Unlike Joe, Mary not only saw and heard — she 
believed her eyes and ears. 

“Oh, God! God!” she gasped her gratitude. 
« Don > t — don’t shoot, Joe! My wolf-dog —my 
blessed wolf! .... mothering Baby!” 

“Wait!” warned Joe. 

He clutched Mary’s ankle —only to let go no less 



304 


Branded 


suddenly as he realized the truth. Splay Foot had 

not so much as stirred.Her sleep was the 

sleep from which even her wariness could not waken 
her. 

Mary was creeping forward on her knees, sobbing 
thanks to the beast whose slit ear would never again 
prick up at any sound. But her voice did not go 
unheard. 

The little body that was cuddled against the 
nipples of the she-wolf twisted around. Baby fingers 
grasped at the beast’s shoulder. A red-gold head rose 
in line with the gray slit-ear. 

Mary called to her baby. He gurgled and flung 
out his hands to her and started to crawl over the 
body of the cattle-killer. Only then Mary saw 
the blackened pool in a little hollow of the rock be¬ 
side the she-wolf’s branded shoulder. She clasped 
the baby to her bosom and drew back. 

“Oh!” she cried. “Look, Joe. She saved Baby 
and drove Pari off. But he must have shot her as he 
ran — the coward! ” 

At the moment Joe had no thought for either the 
she-wolf or the human wolf. He was at Mary’s heels, 
trying to crowd past her. 

“ Baby ? ” he asked. “ Is he starved or — or much 
hurt ? ” 

“No-no-no, not a scratch, bless him! — and as fat 
as ever .... only hungry.” Mary drew aside with 
the nursing child to make room for Joe to pass. “ No 
woftder he’s famished. My blessed wolf-mother could 
have given him only one meal before she died. But, 




The She-Wolfs Lair 


305 


Joe, to think of her doing it for me — though you 
killed her pups!” 

Joe said nothing. He had turned the she-wolf 
over on her branded shoulder and was looking at the 
hole of the forty-five pistol bullet low down in the 
beast’s chest. Its position told him that she had 
been shot from below — undoubtedly by Parlen from 
down in the canon. 

He felt sure that the she-wolf had lived only long 
enough to whirl around with head away from the 
cliff brink. If the savage beast had fed the baby, 
it had been because she was too dead to feed on him. 
She had happened to drop alongside, instead of 
upon the baby and he had suckled her milk. 

Yet why disillusion Mary? She believed her 
“ wolf-dog ” had been fond of her. Just possibly, 
that might be the truth. It was even possible, though 
not probable, that the cubless wolf mother had not 
died at once, but had intentionally suckled the man- 
cub of the human mother who had been good to her. 

However that might be, Splay Foot was now dead 
.... and the baby safe. All that remained was to 
settle with the wolf man who had stolen the child 
and brought him into this deadly danger. 

From down in the canon bottom came thudding 
sounds. Joe thrust forward to peer over the brink 
of the cliff. Down below he saw Swede and Limpy 
fast piling up a heap of stones. 

“Hoy!” he shouted. “What you doing? Parl’s 
gone. Must have headed up-canon. Look for his 
trail.” 



306 


Branded 


Limpy pointed to the stone pile. 

“He’s gone to — where he b’longs. Splay Foot 
knocked him down the cliff. Busted him bad. Me 
and Swede’re planting him. But he lasted long 
’nough to make his will. He owned up he shot your 
uncle. Savvy that, kid? He cleared you of the kill¬ 
ing, and give you and Miss Mary the Circle B.” 

“But the baby?” broke in Swede. “The devil 
let Splay Foot get him. You back up to Miss Mary. 
Hold her till me and Limpy can come up and bury 
the bones.” 

Out past Joe’s shoulder thrust a golden head — 
then a smaller head of red-gold. Mary beamed down 
at the astonished punchers. 

“You’re coming up to help Joe close the cave,” 
she said. “ It’s my wolf-dog’s home. She saved Baby 
from — him. She died defending Baby for me. She 
shall lie here in her home. Nothing shall ever disturb 
her.” 

Joe did not grin, or even smile. He was very 
serious. His thoughts were in a whirl. They went 
back to that May day in his boyhood when here in 
the lair of old Gotch Ear he slit the ear of the only 
cub that Parlen had not been quick enough to smash 
with a stone. He had tossed the tiny she-wolf to 
little Mary. 

Now, after all these years, the she-wolf — proba¬ 
bly unintentionally, yet just possibly on purpose — 
had repaid Mary for all her kindness. Whether by 
accident or design, she had saved Mary’s baby from 
the crazed kidnapper. 




The She-Wolfs Lair 


307 


And Parlen had come through. Dying, he had 
sought to right the wrongs he had committed. He 
had given his cousin and Mary his brand — the big J 

gest brand in the Yamparo country.What 

counted far more, he had blotted out the brand of 
murder that had been put upon his innocent cousin. 

Joe’s eyes widened with awe. Who was he to have 
such good fortune come upon him? 

He drew back to where Mary, with her free hand, 
was stroking the scarred head of the she-wolf. 

“ You’re right,” he said. “ Here’s where your pup 
started, and here’s where she stays — scalp and all. 
I’m wishing her all the ghost-calves she wants in 
the Happy Hunting Grounds! ” 

“Oh, no,” differed Mary. “Not that. She’s been 
so good to me. I hope — I believe she’ll be a dog 
there — a kind, gentle, faithful dog.” 

Again Joe did not grin, or even smile. Instead, 
he drew Mary and the baby close to him. 













/ 















































































































. 
































































. 











































. 































‘ 













t , 










1 ' \ : f J '< 
















> • 








A 















. 














% 





























U, ' • . 



-'"■ \ 


I 











NOV 1? 1924 



